Page 57 of Leather & Lies

Jackson goes still for a heartbeat, then groans, deep in his chest. His hands slide into my hair as he kisses me back, but he lets me control it, lets me set the pace. Even now, he’s giving me the choice.

I press closer, rain-soaked clothes cold between us. Thunder rolls overhead, but I barely hear it over the rushing in my ears. Over the sound of our breathing as the kiss deepens, turning hungry.

“Shiloh.” He breaks away just enough to speak against my mouth, my name half question, half prayer. “We don’t have to?—”

“I know.” My fingers tighten on his wrist, anchoring us both. “I want to.”

His eyes darken with desire, but there’s something else there, too—hope, raw and painful for me to see. Because I know what he’s thinking—maybe this means I’ll stay, maybe this time will be different. I can’t bring myself to correct him, to take that light from his eyes. Not yet.

“Let’s get you warm and dry,” he says, his thumb brushing my cheek.

The walk to his study is both too long and too short. I feel a strange catch in my throat at the domesticity of it—this could have been any evening, coming in from the rain together, if things were different. If I were different.

Jackson’s study is dark until he lights the fire, the flames catching quickly on the dry wood. I’ve always loved this room, with its worn leather chairs and shelves of books he actually reads, not just for show. The warmth slowly reaches me as I stand there dripping on his rug, watching him move around the familiar space.

“I want this,” I say quietly as he turns back to me, the words true even if they aren’t complete. “I want you.”

On my terms,I add silently.While I still can.

He moves toward me, slow but sure, like approaching a wild thing that might startle. The firelight catches the water droplets in his hair, turning them to gold. When he reaches for the edge of the blanket still draped around my shoulders, I catch his hand.

“Let me,” I say, and something in my voice makes him go still.

I let the blanket fall, then start on the buttons of his shirt with deliberate fingers. The wet fabric clings, but I work it free, letting my hands learn him again—the strength in his shoulders, the scars I remember and the new ones I don’t. His breath hitches when I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat race beneath my touch.

Jackson keeps his hands at his sides, letting me explore, though I can feel the tension in him. Only when I step back to pull my own shirt over my head does he move, catching my cold hands in his warm ones.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, rubbing heat back into my fingers.

“Not from the cold.” I free one hand to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the muscle jump beneath my touch. When I press up to kiss him, he meets me halfway, but lets me control it, lets me take what I need.

We undress each other slowly, the fire warming our rain-chilled skin. When I press him back into his leather chair, straddling his lap, his hands settle on my hips—supporting, not guiding. Giving me the control I need, even as hope and desire darken his eyes.

“Shiloh,” he breathes against my neck, and I close my eyes against the weight of everything he isn’t saying. Everything I can’t say back.

I set our rhythm, slow and deep, each movement deliberate. His hands tighten on my hips, but he lets me lead, watching me with an intensity that should make me want to look away.Instead, I hold his gaze, memorizing the way the firelight plays across his features, the way his breath catches when I move just so.

“Let me see you,” he whispers, and for once, I do. Let down every wall, every defense, giving him this one honest moment before I have to leave. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and I turn into the touch, letting myself feel everything I’ve been running from.

When release takes me, it’s like breaking apart and coming home all at once. I feel him follow, feel his arms wrap around me, holding me close as we both tremble. For a moment, I let myself rest against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, feeling the gentle stroke of his fingers along my spine.

The fire crackles, sending shadows dancing across the walls of his study. His study, in his ranch house, on his land. All the things I can’t be part of, no matter how right this feels. No matter how much I wish—but wishes aren’t for women like me.

I know what’s coming with the dawn. For now though, just for these few precious hours, I let myself sleep in his arms.

22

Jackson

Lightning flickersthrough my bedroom windows, painting Shiloh’s skin in stark contrasts of shadow and silver. She sleeps beside me, all that fierce competence gentled by exhaustion, her dark hair spilled across my pillow like spilled ink. I should feel triumphant. We saved the herd together, proved how perfectly we complement each other. Then I claimed her with a desperation that still burns in my blood.

But there’s a new tension in her shoulders even as she sleeps. A distance that wasn’t there before she found those surveillance files last night. Before she learned just how long I’ve been watching, waiting, planning to make her mine.

When she wakes, she doesn’t look at me. Just slides from the bed with fluid grace, gathering her clothes with precise movements that set off every warning bell in my head. It’s how she moves when she’s planning something that could get her killed if she makes one wrong move.

“Shiloh.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.

She doesn’t pause in her methodical gathering of belongings. Doesn’t acknowledge the warning in my tone that usually makes her yield.

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