Page 19 of The Lasso Master

“The hell you do,” he said, stepping closer, voice low and unshakable. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no room for negotiation. And Harper knew—knew in her gut—that this wasn’t a man she could sideline or protect by pushing away. Reed wouldn’t be set aside. He’d walk through fire before letting her go, and nothing she said would change that.

She looked away, guilt tight in her chest. “It’s not safe for you.”

He gave a short laugh. “That stopped being your call when you pulled me into this.”

She swallowed hard; the words clawing up her throat. “I think it’s Stuart. I think he’s alive. I think he’s behind all of this—the ambush, the threats. No one else would call me that. ‘Specter’ was his name for me. It always was. He used to say I moved like smoke. Said it like it was a compliment. Like he owned it.”

Harper’s jaw tensed as she stared at a point beyond Reed’s shoulder and continued. “He found me when I was young, stupid, and too damn fast for my own good. Taught me everything I know about slipping into places, finding what didn’t belong, and walking out with it like it was mine.”

Her mouth twisted into something like a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought he was dead. Two years ago, I received news that a warehouse fire in Istanbul had burned and killed him. Intel was solid. Even the Curator believed it. I grieved for him, Reed. I buried the version of me that needed him.”

She exhaled sharply. “But if he’s alive—and I’m right—then none of this is an accident.. it’s him. He’s back. And he’s using me to get to someone bigger. Or to prove a point. Or both.”

Reed’s gaze sharpened. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely sure? No. But I know him. And it fits, so I'm pretty sure. He always played the long game. And this? This is exactly his style.”

Reed was quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. “If he’s coming for you, he’ll have to get through me first. Don't run, little thief. Stay.”

She wanted to argue. Instead, she stepped in close, nodding her head slowly.

“Then take me,” she whispered. “Not because you have to. Not because I’m still here, but because I want to be.”

He looked down at her, jaw tense. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “But I want rope... your rope. I want to feel it. I want you to tie me down and make me stay.”

He didn’t hesitate. He led her to the playroom, closing the door behind them before turning to her "Strip."

"Naked?" she squeaked, her cheeks heating.

She wasn't sure she liked being ordered around—at least not outside of her own terms. But the way he said it, the quiet steel in his voice, made her pulse skip. Part of her bristled, but the rest ofher, the part that clenched low and throbbed harder with every commanding word, couldn't deny how much it turned her on.

"That's the general idea."

The thrill of surrender curled under her skin. It wasn’t just a command—it was possession. It made her stomach flip, her breath catch, and arousal curl low and tight inside her.

So, she obeyed.

He tied her—slowly, reverently. Silk against skin, the rope slithering in whispering coils as he worked it across her body. Each knot was a pledge, a silent declaration that she was his in this moment. He wrapped her with precision and patience, circling her wrists, drawing lines around her hips and under the swell of her breasts, until the rope formed an intricate pattern that was as much art as restraint. He drew her arms back just enough to keep her vulnerable. Her spine curved with tension and anticipation.

With every cinch, her breath grew more uneven, heat blooming low and spreading through her limbs. Her nipples pebbled in the cool air, exposed and throbbing, and she could feel the wetness building between her legs, slick and insistent. Her heart pounded in her throat, but it wasn’t fear—it was hunger. To be seen, held, taken. To be owned, just for this breathless stretch of time.

He slowly peeled his shirt off over his head, revealing a torso sculpted by years of discipline and war. Muscles rippled across his chest and abdomen, each movement deliberate, powerful, meant to be seen and felt. His skin gleamed in the low light, a contrast to the black leather trousers that clung to his hips like a second skin. The sight of him like that—bare chest, dominant, utterly in control—sent a hot rush straight through her core.

He towered over her, the heat of his body blanketing her, and she felt the rasp of his breath along her collarbone. The ropes tightened with each inhale she drew, but the true restraint was inthe way he looked at her. Like she was the only thing he saw. The only thing that mattered.

When the blindfold slid over her eyes, the world narrowed to sensation. She felt his breath before his fingers. Then the first touch—fingertips tracing the edges of the rope, her ribs, the soft underside of her thighs. He kissed each spot like a vow.

His mouth found her breasts. His tongue circled one nipple, then the other, drawing a sharp gasp from her throat. He moved lower, hands firm on her hips as he nudged her thighs farther apart. His mouth met her slick heat with a groan that vibrated through her bones.

He used his tongue like he was tasting worship. Slow strokes, teasing flicks. Every time she got close, he stopped. Kissed her inner thigh. Breathed against her folds until she sobbed.

Then his fingers joined—inside her, curling perfectly. Her body bowed. The rope dug just enough to remind her she couldn’t move. Couldn’t run. Didn’t want to.

"You’re mine like this," he said into her skin, his voice low and rough, vibrating against her flushed flesh. "And I’m going to make sure you feel it."

Harper whimpered, her voice barely a thread. Still, he didn’t move to take her—not yet. He needed her to burn. To ache. To break open so he could put her back together his way.

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