Page 45 of Leather & Lies

I capture her wrist, trying to reclaim control, but she’s already leaning in to press her lips to that same scar. My grip tightens convulsively. She’s demolishing every wall I’ve built, and I can’t seem to stop her.

Lightning flashes outside, painting her skin silver. She’s a force of nature in my lap, untamed despite every chain I’ve wrapped around her. My hands slide up her back, finding the zipper of her dress. I should tear it. Mark her. Remind us both who truly holds the power here.

Instead, my fingers tremble against the delicate silk. She arches as I ease the zipper down, each inch of exposed skin a victory I didn’t know I wanted. The dress pools at her waist, leaving her in black lace that makes my mouth go dry.

Her hands brace against my chest as she rolls her full hips against mine. The move draws a growl from my throat—too gentle, too careful, too much like making love instead of claiming. I grip her harder, trying to force the pace I want. She yields instantly, but the surrender in her eyes undoes me more than any resistance.

I drag her closer, nipping and nibbling along her throat. My mark blooms red against her skin, but she doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t try to hide the shudder that runs through her. The trust in that response rocks through me like thunder.

Her nails scrape down my chest, leaving trails of fire. I could stop her. Should stop her. I let her push my shirt off my shoulders, let her trace each scar and muscle like she’s mapping territory. When did I start giving her this much freedom? When did her touch start feeling like ownership?

Her hands reach my belt, and she opens it, then unbuttons my slacks to free my hard cock.

Lightning flashes again, catching the uncertainty that flickers across her face. Her movements grow hesitant, the confidence of moments ago faltering. Need wars with inexperience in her eyes.

My hands flex on her hips, hard enough to bruise. For once, the urge to control comes from somewhere deeper than dominance. “Let me show you.” The words scrape from my throat as I guide myself into her, groaning as her wet heat takes me.

She’s still so fucking tight. Carefully, I work myself deeper into her, guiding her hips in a slow rhythm, my fingers digging into tender flesh as I claim her. Her sharp inhale tells me she feels the pain—and likes it.

She trembles under my hands, trying to rush, to prove something. I tighten my grip punishingly. “Slower.” The word comes out rough as I guide her hips in a deeper roll, my other hand fisting in her hair. “Feel that?” Her gasp turns to a whimper as I show her exactly how I want her to move, using the grip on her hair to arch her back further. “Right there.”

Her head snaps back in my grip, throat exposed and vulnerable. My mark is already darkening her skin, but it’s not enough. I want to watch her learn how to break herself against me, again and again, until she craves the destruction as much as I do. Want to feel her discover how to take her pleasure—and mine—through the sweet edge of pain.

“That’s it.” My voice drops lower as she follows my lead, finding the punishing rhythm I’ve taught her. The flutter of hermuscles around me tells me how close she is, but she’s fighting it—still trying to maintain some illusion of control.

I gather her closer, one hand spanning her lower back as I guide her into a deeper angle. My teeth find her shoulder, biting down. “Let go.” It comes out more plea than command. “I’ve got you.” The way she surrenders to pain and begs for more burns hotter than any victory I’ve ever claimed. When she finally shatters in my arms, gasping my name, it’s not submission to my will—it’s recognition of how perfectly our darkness twines together.

Her release triggers mine, but even as pleasure tears through me, my grip doesn’t gentle. I hold her through the aftershocks, keeping her exactly where I want her, letting her feel the bruises forming under my hands. Her whole body trembles, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t try to escape the bite of my fingers or the way I’m marking her inside and out.

Something dark and satisfied unfurls in my chest when she collapses against me, completely spent. I’ve driven her past her limits, past her control, past her pretense of independence—and she’s let me. The knowledge burns like whiskey in my blood.

We stay tangled together as our breathing slows, my hands still possessive on her skin. I should push her away. Should reassert the distance between owner and possession. Instead, I find myself cataloging every mark I’ve left on her, every bruise blooming under my fingers. My thumb traces each one like a signature.

When she finally stirs, I expect her to pull away. To rebuild her walls. But she only settles deeper against my chest, her breath evening out into sleep. The trust in that simple action undoes me more than any submission.

I try to ignore how right she feels curled against my chest. How her pleasure—and my unwillingness to pull out of her, to separate our bodies—has somehow given her power over me.

Tomorrow, I’ll remember what this is supposed to be—a contract.

But tonight, just for tonight, I let myself forget.

17

Shiloh

The lightning strikeslike god’s own fury, the crack of thunder instantaneous and deafening. For one frozen moment, I see everything in stark relief—the barn’s weathered wood, the storm-tossed trees, Jackson’s face as he turns toward the sound. Then darkness crashes back, but something’s wrong. The air carries a new scent beneath the rain—smoke.

In the week since the gala, Jackson and I have achieved an uneasy peace. The fierce thunderstorm feels like a portent of misery to come, as if one wrong step could ruin everything.

“Fire!” Miguel’s voice carries over the wind. Already, lights are coming on in the ranch hands’ quarters, boots hitting their wooden porch as they respond to the alarm.

The barn. My heart stops as another flash of lightning illuminates orange flames already licking at the roof. Inside, thirty horses worth millions stamp and whinny, their panic a counterpoint to the thunder.

I’m running before conscious thought, my boots sliding in the mud. Jackson catches my arm. “Wait?—”

“There’s no time!” I wrench free, already calculating which horses will need to come out first. The Friesian’s stall is closest to the flames, and he’s the most likely to fight. “Get the handsmoving. We need the fire equipment and every lead rope we’ve got.”

For once, Jackson doesn’t argue. His voice carries over the storm as he starts barking orders, organizing the response while I sprint for the barn doors.

---