Page 6 of Leather & Lies

I could refuse to go. Could barricade myself in the ranch house, make him come take what he wants by force. The thought sends a shiver up my spine that I refuse to analyze.

I’ve rehabilitated horses that no one thought could be gentled. Made myself indispensable when my father nearly gambled everything away. Survived on grit and expertise when money ran dry. Yet one touch from Jackson Hawkins undid years of hard-won independence, and worse—part of me craves that undoing.

The dress slides over my skin like surrender. I leave my hair down—partly to hide the bruises on my neck from working with the stallion, partly because I’ve seen how Jackson’s eyes follow my hair when I move. A weapon is a weapon, even if it’s not the kind I’m used to wielding. And I need armor tonight against Jackson, against the shameful heat that pools low in my belly at the memory of his touch.

The dress clings to my curves, and I hate the need that coils in my core as I imagine his hands tracing over the fabric, how my breath turns uneven as I remember how he left me two days before, frustrated and aching.

Salvation’s a small town with a small dating pool. I’ve gone home with men—boys—who couldn’t give me what I needed, who were bland and sweet and careful with me. Not a single one gave me the same frisson of fear combined with arousal that Jackson Hawkins does.

The contract he’d emailed me was abhorrent—my body, my obedience, my submission, for a fucking year, in exchange for my ranch. I’d live with him, fuck him when he required, and share his bed at night.

God help me, my thighs clench together at the thought. Am I actually considering it? Considering giving him everything for an entire year?

He doesn’t really expect me to say yes to this ludicrous contract, does he?

My ancient truck looks even more battered in the soft light of sunset. I should be ashamed, driving this rust bucket up to his stunning ranch house. Instead, I lift my chin. Let him see exactly what he’s buying. Let him know I won’t polish and pretty myself up for him. Not more than I already have, in any case.

The radio crackles with static as I drive, some old country song about standing your ground. I laugh, but it comes outsounding more like a sob. Daddy always said I was too stubborn for my own good.

The road winds up into the hills like a snake—appropriate, given its owner. The gate opens without me having to stop. I blink, looking for the guards, before noting the security cameras. I wonder if he’s watching right now. If he gets off on seeing me drive straight into his trap. I hate how my body warms at the thought of his eyes on me.

I park between a Maserati and a truck that probably cost more than my payroll for a year. My hands clench on the steering wheel, nails biting into my palms. I still have a choice. I could drive away, choose the highway over him, freedom over security, give up the ranch generations of Fosters had spent building.

I think about the four ranch hands who work our land, two of them since I was a kid. The horses I’ve rehabilitated, saved from slaughter. The cattle. The land my family’s worked for generations.

I have to do this.

I have to save the ranch.

No matter what it takes.

Through the mansion’s windows, I see Jackson waiting in a tailored suit that probably costs more than I make in a month. One hand holding a crystal tumbler, the other in his pocket.

No man as cruel as Jackson Hawkins has the right to look as handsome as he does, with broad shoulders and thick thighs that I remember pressing against mine as he held me against the table.

Time to face the devil. I pull myself together and step out of my truck, head high, spine straight. The gravel crunches under my boots—the one thing I refused to change. Let him see that he can offer to buy my body and my submission, but he’ll never own my soul.

A housekeeper of some sort opens the door, gesturing for me to come in. The foyer gleams with old money and new threats, and I struggle to keep my gaze forward instead of gawking at the obscene display of wealth.

“Miss Foster.” The housekeeper smiles, but her eyes judge my dusty boots beneath the dress as I leave faint marks on the marble with every step. For a second, I regret my stubbornness, then remember who I am. Fuck him. “Mr. Hawkins is waiting in the dining room.”

Of course he is. Everything in his ranch house is staged for maximum impact—the chandeliers dripping crystal, the artwork likely worth more than all of my cattle put together, the subtle scent of what’s surely an obscenely expensive dinner.

I follow her through halls designed to make visitors feel small. The dining room door opens on silent hinges, and there he is—Jackson Hawkins, looking like every dark fantasy I’ll never admit to having.

Heat licks down my spine as I remember his hands on my body, his fingers playing with my core like it belonged to him, dominating me so I didn’t have a choice but to accept the pleasure. I quash my desire so rage can well up from the depths of my soul at this cruel man who wants me to trade my body for my ranch. Or rather, who hopes his cruel offer will drive me away.

It won’t.

It’s my ranch.

My family’s ranch.

And I’ll do anything to keep it.

“Seven minutes late. Seems you need both a watch and a lesson in obedience.” He doesn’t look up from pouring wine into a glass that could pay for one of my employee’s salaries.

“Some of us have to earn our keep.” I stay in the doorway, refusing to enter his territory without being explicitly invited.“Unlike those who make their money off taking advantage of others.”

---