Page 9 of The Lasso Master

Taming her? That thought alone lit up every dominant instinct in him like a fuse—and it went straight to his cock. Tightened low and hot in his gut, like anticipation wound too tight. He imagined her bent for him, bound not just in rope but in trust, that sharp mouth silenced with breathless moans instead of defiance. The image was raw, visceral, and entirely unprofessional.

And he didn’t give a damn.

But this wasn’t about fantasy. Not entirely. It was about a missing artifact—one that could spark diplomatic hellfire if it surfaced in the wrong hands. It was about a breach of trust inside his club, even if it hadn’t been a technical one. And it was about a woman who’d lied to get in, had secrets deeper than her smile, and still had just enough truth in her voice to keep him from tossing her to the authorities. That instinct to protect her—to possess her—wasn’t just inconvenient. It was dangerous. But he trusted his gut more than he trusted the law. And his gut told him Harper Langston was the key to the whole damn mess… whether or not she liked it.

He grabbed the folder Gavin handed him, flipped through the printouts—aliases, a few surveillance captures, a sealed record from juvie. Ghosts stacked on ghosts. She’d spent years vanishing into different skins, and yet here she was, sitting in his office, waiting.

Not running. That was what made her dangerous.

He found her exactly where he'd left her—alone in the corner of his office at Silver Spur's downtown corporate headquarters, legs crossed, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest like she owned the damn place. Harper didn’t flinch when he opened the door.

Getting her there had been a study in friction. He’d shown up when she’d least expected it, scooped her off the sidewalk before anyone else could, and hadn’t said a word during the ride except to bark an order to his driver. She hadn’t resisted—not really. She’d sat there next to him in the back seat, perfectly still but never passive. Her fingers tapped a quiet rhythm against her thigh like she was keeping time in a song only she knew. Her gaze flicked to every window, every mirror, every corner of the car like she was building a mental map of escape routes—measuring options, calculating risks.

She didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t need to. And when she finally turned to meet his eyes, there was a flicker of something unreadable there—challenge, maybe. Or curiosity.But her eyes never stopped scanning, calculating. Like she was weighing whether to bolt or bite.

Now, she perched on the edge of the leather armchair like a queen on her throne—or a chess player holding her breath before a risky move. Her posture was a blend of elegance and defiance, like she was daring the surrounding space to question her right to exist in it. One leg crossed over the other with practiced ease, fingers idly tapping her thigh like a ticking clock only she could hear. Her head tilted at the perfect angle—equal parts curiosity, control, and challenge. A message in her body language, loud and clear: You can’t intimidate me. You’ll have to earn it.

He shut the door behind him. No drama. Just the solid click of power falling into place.

He didn’t speak right away. He had other things to handle—briefings, damage control, a pissed-off client who might or might not be laundering black market antiquities through their event sponsorships. But he'd left Harper in his office for ten minutes with no guards, no instructions other than to stay put and only minimal visual surveillance.

It had been a test. She hadn’t taken the bait... at least not yet.

“Let me guess,” Harper said. “You’re not here to offer me a drink and a warm welcome.”

Reed stepped forward slowly, each step deliberate, letting the silence stretch between them like a drawn wire. He enjoyed watching people unravel in those moments—liked the power of quiet anticipation. Most couldn’t take the weight of it. But Harper? She didn’t squirm. Didn’t shift. She just sat there, poised and unnervingly still, her eyes locked on his with a look that dared him to blink first. There was no fear in her gaze, only fire. He’d walked into that room with the upper hand. And damn if she didn’t make him feel like she was handing it back piece by piece, just to watch what he’d do with it.

“Only if it comes with handcuffs,” he said.

Her smile was slow and dry. “You offering or threatening?”

“Depends on your answer.”

He stepped closer, drawn by something he didn’t bother to name. Close enough to smell the faint trace of her perfume—jasmine and steel, a combination that shouldn’t have worked but somehow embodied her perfectly. Sharp and soft. Lethal and lush. His body moved before his mind caught up, a low burn gathering in his spine and heat settling in his gut. She didn’t flinch, didn’t lean away. She just arched an eyebrow, daring him to come closer, to cross the line she clearly didn’t fear. The air between them crackled—danger and desire dressed up as silence.

“I have footage,” he said. “You in a restricted wing. Palming walls like you’re looking for a latch.”

She blinked, just once. “I wasn’t stealing anything.”

“No. But you were hunting.”

“I needed confirmation,” she said tightly.

“Of what?”

“That something very dangerous passed through this place.”

Reed stared at her, eyes searching for cracks, any hint of retreat or hesitation—but there were none. She didn’t break. Didn’t even bend. Not even a flicker of guilt or panic crossed her face. Just that same feral pride, sharp and wild and unapologetic. The kind of pride that didn’t ask for mercy because it would offer none in return. It was bold. Defiant. And God help him, it turned him on.

“My name is Harper Langston. I'm a thief—or at least, I used to be.” Her voice was steady, but there was a flicker in her eyes, a shadow of old regrets and hard-earned lines. “Now, I use my skills to help people who have been robbed and can’t go to the police. Art collectors, galleries, even private citizens. People who’ve had something stolen but are too embarrassed ortoo compromised to report it.” She held his gaze. “I get it back. Quietly. Efficiently. And I don’t leave a trace.” Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t take the artifact.”

He believed her. Damn it all, he did.

“Then who did?” he asked.

Harper’s mouth twitched. “That’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

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