Page 11 of The Lasso Master

“You stole it.”

She licked her lips, just to see if he’d track the movement. He did.

Then he turned on his heel. “Come with me.”

The room he took her to was warm and dimly lit—bare wood floors that creaked faintly beneath their steps, iron wall hooks arranged with unsettling precision, and a padded bench in the center that looked more like an altar than furniture. The air smelled faintly of leather and something darker—anticipation, maybe. Every detail felt intentional, from the lack of windows to the soft, amber glow that left shadows in all the right places. No cameras. No mirrors. No audience. Just her and him, stripped of pretense and framed by silence thick enough to bite through.

She stopped in the doorway. “You have a fully equipped private playroom in your house?”

"Doesn't everyone?" He asked, as if he truly believed everyone did. "But I didn't bring you here to play. This is about teaching you a lesson."

He stepped behind her, the heat of his body brushing her back, and closed the door with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have in the weighted silence. It was the kind of sound that marked a line—the shift from warning to consequence. She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just felt him there, a wall of heat and control, steady as gravity and just as inescapable.

“Strip,” he said, voice low and edged with steel. Not cold, not cruel—just absolute. The kind of tone that brooked no argument but didn’t need to raise itself to be obeyed. She turned to face him and his eyes locked on hers, unreadable, but his presence pressed down like a hand at her spine, daring her to disobey.

Her breath hitched, but she stood straighter. “That’s a hell of an opening move, cowboy.”

Reed came closer, crowding her space. “Safe word is red. You’re clean?”

“Yes. Birth control implant.”

“And this is consensual?”

“You’re not forcing me,” she said. “I’m choosing this.”

“But you’re holding something back.”

She flashed him a mischievous grin. “I always do.”

He nodded once. “Then I’ll take what I can. And earn the rest.”

Being naked over-his-knee was more intimate than she expected—uncomfortably so. It wasn’t about punishment. It was about ownership, proximity, the way her skin prickled under the heatof his body as much as the sting of his hand... and every time it landed, it stung and then somehow transformed into something very, very close to arousal.

His palm came down hard, a sharp snap of sensation that bloomed hot across her skin. Then again. And again. Each strike coaxed heat, not just across her backside, but radiating out through her thighs, her chest, her clenched jaw. She gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the sounds he wanted, even as her body started to betray her—tingling, reacting, softening in the worst possible ways.

Pain shouldn’t feel like this. She wasn't a pain slut; she wasn't even a masochist. It shouldn’t confuse her brain or make her hips shift like they had a mind of their own. But it did. And the realization infuriated her almost as much as it thrilled.

A whimper slipped free on the sixth strike. Her hips jerked. Her body betrayed her.

Reed leaned over and murmured low in her ear, “There’s my girl.”

He stroked a hand down her spine, slow and firm, anchoring her in the aftermath of sensation. Her skin twitched under his palm, muscles taut, nerves blazing. When his fingers dipped lower, they ghosted just over the seam of her thighs—teasing, maddening, deliberate. He didn’t penetrate, didn’t rush. Just hovered there, trailing featherlight circles that made her shudder.

Her aching, needy body was wound so tight that she wanted to scream. Molten heat filled her, her slickness undeniable and humiliating. Her body betrayed every lie her mouth wanted to tell. He dragged a knuckle through the wetness, slow and reverent, then brought it back up to brush against her inner thigh like a threat. Her breath stuttered, shame and want tangling in her throat. She hated how badly she wanted more—and how perfectly he knew it.

“You’re soaking wet, Harper.”

“Go to hell,” she gasped.

He chuckled. “That, little thief, is not your safe word.”

He didn’t push further. Just circled his palm over her backside, slow and steady, rubbing warmth into the sting he’d left behind. His touch wasn’t apologetic—it was possessive, claiming her with every pass, grounding her even as her skin still burned. Each glide of his hand ignited heat that lodged deep within, blurring the line between ache and hunger. His every palm press branded her, reminding her he had seen, taken, and now owned her in this maddening, humiliating, and intoxicating way. A warning. A promise. And beneath it all, an unspoken vow: he wasn’t done. Not even close.

She hated how much she needed it—how her breath came in shallow bursts, each inhale shaky, as if her lungs didn’t trust her anymore. Her pulse pounded at her temples, hot and insistent. The ache he stirred didn’t fade with the sting; it expanded through her like wildfire, a hunger she couldn’t reason with. It was shameful, maddening—and completely overwhelming. Even so, she wanted more.

Her skin buzzed with leftover adrenaline, her body thrumming with anticipation she couldn’t stuff down. How the ache he stirred didn’t fade with the sting, but bloomed wider, deeper, into something molten and greedy. It gnawed at her pride, tangled with every instinct that told her to pull away, to shield herself. But her body leaned into it, into him, with a desperation that felt as raw as it was maddening. Every nerve lit up in betrayal, begging for more of what she shouldn’t crave and couldn’t seem to deny.

When he helped her to her feet, she didn’t look at him. Her legs wobbled slightly, and before she could recover her balance, he scooped her up and settled onto the padded bench, pulling her into his lap like she weighed nothing. She tensed at first—outof pride, out of instinct—but then his arms wrapped around her with quiet strength, anchoring her again.

---