Page 44 of Leather & Lies

“Always.” I step closer, backing her toward the window. Thunder crashes outside as I slide my jacket from her shoulders.

Her perfume fills my lungs as I close the last distance between us. My hand finds her throat, thumb brushing over her mother’s silver pendant. Her pulse races under my touch, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t submit. Not yet.

“We could have made it back to the ranch.” Her voice holds that edge that always makes me want to shatter her control. “The roads aren’t that bad.”

“I’m not sharing you with fifty miles of icy roads.” The words scrape out of my throat as I back her against the window. “Not when you look like this. Not when I’ve watched men stare at you all night.” Cold glass meets her bare shoulders, drawing a gasp I swallow with my mouth.

She kisses me back with that familiar mix of defiance and desire that drives me mad. My hands fist in the silk of her dress, but some part of me still catches the shiver that runs through her. Before I can stop myself, I’m reaching for the thermostat controls.

The movement breaks our kiss. Dark and hungry need twists in my chest at the sight of her lips, swollen from my attention. I spin her to face the window, pinning her hands above her head. “You’ve been fighting this all night.” My teeth graze her neck as Salvation’s lights sparkle below us. “Even though we both want it.”

Instead of struggling against my grip, she arches back into me. The willing surrender in that small movement rocks through me like lightning. This isn’t her usual capitulation—a temporary ceasefire in our war of wills. This is different. Dangerous.

My fingers tighten on her wrists as panic claws up my throat. “Tell me to stop.”

“No.” The word falls soft and sure from her lips.

For the first time since I orchestrated her submission, I’m the one who feels trapped. My careful plans scatter like ashes on the wind as she turns her head, meeting my eyes with a trust I don’t deserve. Everything in me screams to look away, to reclaim the distance that’s kept me safe. But I find myself drowning as my free hand slides down her throat to rest over her thundering heart.

“You’re mine.” The words come out more raw plea than command.

Her only answer is a soft exhale that fogs the glass. The sight of her reflection—eyes half-closed, lips parted—snaps what remains of my restraint. I release her wrists to grip her hips, spinning her to face me. The force of it rustles her silk gown, a whisper of fabric that sounds like surrender.

“Look at me.” My voice is barely recognizable. When she obeys instantly, something wild and possessive tears through my chest. My hands clench in her dress, probably ruining the delicate fabric. I can’t bring myself to care. “I won’t be gentle.”

“I know.” Two simple words that shred my control. Her fingers find my tie, tugging it loose with deliberate slowness. Testing me.

I catch her hands, pinning them back against the glass. “I want you, and I’ve waited so fucking long for you to want me back.” The admission scrapes out of my throat. “Watching you fight me. Watching you pretend you don’t want this.” My teeth find her throat, just above my pendant. “No more pretending.”

She gasps—pain or pleasure, it hardly matters. Both belong to me now. The thought should satisfy the possessive hunger that’s driven me for months. Instead, it terrifies me. I cover my confusion with action, dragging my mouth down the elegant line of her neck. Her pulse races under my tongue, and I realize I’m counting the beats, cataloging every response like something precious instead of proof of ownership.

A knock at the door startles us both. “Room service.”

“Ignore it,” she says. But I’m already reaching to adjust her dress where it slipped off one shoulder. My fingers linger on her skin, gentle when they should be demanding. What the hell is wrong with me?

“It’s probably the tea you ordered.” She says it so quietly I almost miss it. I knew everything about her—including that she’d want honey with her tea—but found myself desperate to know what I couldn’t see through a screen, couldn’t surveil. Didshe want to be here? I step back, needing distance, but my hands betray me—they smooth her dress, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Don’t move.” The command comes out hoarse. I force myself to turn away, to handle the mundane details of room service when every cell in my body screams to possess her. To mark her. To gentle her.

Fuck.

The efficient movements of the hotel staff are a blur to me. I sign something, say something, but all I can focus on is Shiloh’s reflection in the window. She hasn’t moved an inch. The sight of her perfect obedience should feed the darker hunger that’s driven me since I first saw her. Instead, something dangerously close to tenderness claws at my chest.

The door clicks shut. I turn back to find her watching me, those whiskey-gold eyes seeing too much.

“The tea will get cold.” Her voice holds no challenge, no defiance. Just simple truth.

“I don’t give a damn about the tea.” But my feet carry me to the cart anyway. My hands pour a cup, adding a spoonful of honey like she prefers.

I press the cup into her hands, and for one unguarded moment, my fingers curl around hers. Comforting. Comforted. Maybe an emotion even more dangerous.

She drinks it slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. The curve of her throat as she swallows undoes me. When she finishes, I take the cup and set it aside with more care than the hotel china deserves.

Her fingers find my shirt buttons. Everything in me should reject this small rebellion, this attempt to take control. I stand frozen as she works each button free. The brush of her knuckles against my chest burns hotter than any mark I’ve left on her.

When she steps back toward the couch, I follow. My body moves without conscious thought, like she’s gained some gravitational pull over me. She turns, pressing me down to sit. The sight of her standing between my knees steals my breath.

Power shifts like mercury between us as she straddles my lap. My hands automatically find her hips, but I can’t tell if I’m controlling or steadying her. Her fingers trace the scar on my collarbone—a legacy from my father’s violence that no one else has ever paid attention to. The gentleness in that gesture terrifies me more than any defiance.

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