Page 43 of Leather & Lies

I stop myself before I say something I regret, but Jackson smiles cruelly. His free hand splays across my lower belly, making my muscles jump. Each turn presses me harder against the thick ridge of his arousal. “I can feel you trembling, little hellcat.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “I don’t have to check to know that you’re soaking wet, your desire dripping down your thighs. Is it your fear of me that makes you wet? Or knowing that everyone can see who you belong to?”

The heavy wool of his tuxedo scrapes against my bare back as he guides us in a slow turn. His thigh forces my legs apart under the pretext of the dance, the pressure exactly where I need it. Shame floods through me as I realize I’m grinding subtly against him, desperate for friction.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his fingers digging into my hip. “Show everyone how well I’ve trained you.”

The ballroom mirrors reflect us from every angle—the powerful rancher and his elegant partner, moving in perfect sync. His fury has cooled to something more controlled, more dangerous. The donor who interrupted earlier approaches again, and Jackson smoothly shifts us to include him in conversation. His charm is effortless, even as his fingers trace possessive patterns that make me want to beg him for more.

He adjusts his hold between each turn, forcing soft gasps from my throat as he guides my body where he wants it. The realization hits—this controlled darkness will be unleashed the moment we’re alone. My body betrays me, clenching with need even as my mind screams danger.

Jackson’s other hand slides lower, proprietary and promising.

As his fingers dig into my flesh—threat and promise in one casual caress—I know it’s already too late. I’m in too deep, caught in a cage built from luxury and debt and my own treacherous desires. My body responds to his touch like a well-trained mare, even as panic flutters in my chest.

His lips brush my ear again. “I’m going to spend hours making you come tonight,” he whispers. “Until you’re begging me to stop. Until you forget everyone but me.” His thigh flexes between my legs. “That’s what you need, isn’t it? To be reminded who you belong to?”

The real question isn’t whether I want to escape. It’s why the thought of what comes next makes me press my thighs togetheraround his leg, desperately seeking more friction even as I tremble.

“Please,” I whisper, not sure if I’m begging him to stop or continue.

His dark chuckle vibrates through me. “Patience, hellcat. Let them all watch how perfectly you dance for me first.”

16

Jackson

The string quartetshifts to a slower melody as Shiloh moves against me, her spine straight despite the exhaustion I can feel in her muscles. The weight of her hand in mine, the brush of her silk gown against my tuxedo—every point of contact feeds a hunger that’s been building all night. But it’s the subtle tremor in her fingers that makes my jaw clench. She’s fighting this just as hard as I am.

I adjust my steps, taking more of her weight. Her new heels must be killing her by now, though she’d rather die than admit it. My thumb strokes across her knuckles before I can catch myself. These small gestures of comfort are dangerous—they reveal too much.

“The storm’s getting worse.” She tilts her head toward the ballroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows, where lightning illuminates clouds heavy with promise. “We should head back to the ranch.”

The ranch. My territory. Where I can strip her out of the gown that’s been driving me mad all night. But the memory of that creditor’s hands on her arm, the way she tensed when he approached—my fingers tighten on her waist.

“Black ice on the mountain roads by now.” My voice comes out darker than intended. I’ve checked the radar three times inthe last hour. The storm’s only getting worse, and I won’t risk her safety, no matter how much I’m using it as an excuse to keep her close.

Thunder cracks overhead as I guide her off the dance floor. Another businessman steps forward with his hand raised to catch my attention. One look at the shadows under Shiloh’s eyes has me cutting him off with a sharp head shake. Business can wait.

My hand settles at the small of her back as we retrieve our things from the coat check. She’s shivering—the subtle kind she thinks I don’t notice. Without a word, I drape my coat over her shoulders. She stiffens, probably fighting the urge to reject even this small gesture, but exhaustion wins. The sight of her wrapped in my clothing sends possession burning through my veins.

“The Westbrook,” I say, intent on getting her naked and flat beneath me as quickly as possible.

The brief walk to my truck through the parking garage gives me too much time to appreciate how she looks in my jacket. The black wool swallows her, highlighting her short stature in a way that makes my hands itch to possess every fucking inch.

Ten minutes later,the hotel lobby glitters with displaced gala attendees, the storm having trapped half of Denver’s elite. I position myself between Shiloh and the crowd, not missing how she sways slightly on her feet. Forty minutes of dancing in those heels, and she’s still standing straight as a queen. My proud, stubborn beauty.

“No rooms available,” the front desk clerk apologizes, wilting under my stare.

“The presidential suite.” I slide my black AmEx across the counter, cutting off her practiced speech. “And send up whatever tea service you have that isn’t Earl Grey.” Shiloh hates it—a detail I shouldn’t know, shouldn’t hoard like gold.

The elevator ride stretches endlessly. Three other couples crowd in with us, forcing her closer. The scent of her perfume wraps around me, vanilla and a darker scent that sets me on fire. Her breath catches when I drag her against me with my hand on her hip, but she doesn’t pull away.

By the time we reach the highest floor, we’re alone again, and I’m aching to take her right there, to hike up that stunning dress and remind her she’s mine. The elevator doors open before my fingers creep higher than her thigh, and I twine her fingers in mine as we hurry toward our suite.

The door closes behind us with a soft click. In the sudden silence, I can hear her heartbeat, see the pulse fluttering in her throat above my jacket collar. She reaches for the light switch, but I catch her wrist.

“Don’t.” My voice has dropped to gravel. Lightning flashes through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her in stark shadows and silver light. “I want to see you like this.”

“Giving orders already?” She tilts her chin up—that familiar defiance that makes me want to conquer and protect in equal measure.

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