Page 41 of The Tracker

She dug deeper. Found an encrypted message routed through the company’s internal chat server. Unnamed sender. Timestamped four hours before Peter’s estimated time of death. And it originated from inside headquarters.

She took a screenshot and sent it to Dawson.

EVANGELINE: You owe me a second pastry.

DAWSON: Only one?

He returned at dusk. She was still in his shirt, feet curled under her on the couch, laptop open and notes spread across the coffee table.

He dropped a fresh pastry bag beside her. “Strawberry and cream cheese. Don’t say I don’t listen.”

She gave him a sly smile. “Did you bring the other thing too?”

His eyebrow lifted. “The other—oh. That thing.”

She stood, slow and fluid. “I’ve been a good girl.”

He stalked forward, eyes darkening. “You’ve been dangerous.”

“Same difference.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her flush against him. “Strip.”

She didn’t hesitate. Her gaze locked with his as her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt—the one she was wearing—the only thing between her and the heat simmering in his eyes. Slowly, she undid each one, the fabric parting inch by inch to reveal bare skin and the simple black bra that cupped her breasts.

The shirt slipped from her shoulders like a sigh, sliding down her arms before pooling at her feet. She reached behind her back with a slow, deliberate arch, unhooking her bra. It fell away, baring the soft swell of her breasts—already taut with anticipation, nipples pebbling beneath the weight of his stare.

He didn’t move. Just watched her, every inch of him radiating tightly leashed power, his stance solid and unyielding—as if the only thing holding him back was his own iron will. The sheer control in his stillness made her shiver.

She stood tall beneath it, unashamed, unflinching. No longer hidden, no longer hesitant. She offered herself not with submission, but with a quiet, fierce challenge—daring him to take. Daring him not to.

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through the room. And still, he waited.

This time, he used rope. Soft, black, and wound with a deliberate precision that made her breath hitch before he even touched her. The way his fingers moved—measured, skilled, reverent—sent shivers licking down her spine before a single knot cinched tight. As he bound her wrists together and secured them above her head to the headboard, he grazed her skin with slow strokes, his touch like static fire, coaxing goosebumps in his wake.

When he spread her legs wide and tied her ankles to the bottom corners of the bed, it wasn’t just exposure—it was offering. It was surrender forged in trust and edged with heat. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her breath shallow as she felt the cool air brush over her slick folds. Dawson stepped back, admiring his work like an artist about to make the first stroke—his eyes dark with hunger, mouth curved in something that bordered on reverence.

She felt seen. Not just her body—but every secret craving, every defiant thrill of letting go. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

He took his time, savoring every reaction, every sigh that slipped past her lips. His fingers glided slowly up the tender inside of her thighs, the touch featherlight—teasing, deliberate, a maddening promise of more. He paused just shy of her heat, then circled back, letting anticipation build until her hips arched of their own accord, begging without words.

Finally, he slipped between her slick folds, stroking her with exquisite precision. He played her clit in lazy circles, alternating pressure until her breath hitched, until she whimpered his name. His mouth followed—nipping at the curve of her neck, lavishing attention on the delicate spot behind her ear, thenmoving lower to her collarbone, marking her with his teeth just hard enough to brand.

When his lips found her breasts, he didn’t rush. He sucked slow, deep pulls around the dusky tips, tugging at each nipple until they peaked, tight and aching, flushed from his attentions. She writhed against the ropes, every nerve strung taut with wanting. The sight of her like that—spread and bound and hungry for him—made him groan against her skin.

Toys she hadn’t seen before emerged from the drawer like secrets made flesh—vibrators of varying intensity, sleek chrome handcuffs that gleamed under the low light, a narrow leather whip he let coil around his wrist like a promise. Each new item made her gasp or moan, breath hitching as anticipation turned electric in her veins. He didn’t rush. The cold kiss of metal against her nipples drew a cry from her throat, sharp and helpless. The soft rope around her wrists was pulled tightly, but not painfully, just enough to remind her she was his to claim, to explore.

Then came the whip, its tail flicking lightly across her inner thigh, then again across her belly, legs, breasts—each touch more deliberate, more demanding, until she writhed in the bindings, desperate and undone. Dawson watched her with a dark fire in his eyes, reading every twitch of her muscles, every flutter of her breath like a conductor with his favorite instrument. The room smelled of sweat, arousal, leather, and heat—primal, unfiltered. And still he pushed her higher, each new sensation peeling her open until she was nothing but nerves and need.

He played her like an instrument—commanding, relentless, loving—and she unraveled under his hands with a rawness she hadn’t expected. Each knot held her still while his gaze bore into hers—making it clear that she was both treasured and devoured all at once.

Every flick of his tongue across the sensitive bud of nerves nestled between her slick folds ignited her like a live wire, sending electric pulses through every inch of her body. She gasped, muscles trembling as the pleasure rolled through her in shimmering waves, her hips lifting instinctively to chase more of his mouth, his touch, his heat.

Each press of his fingers into her velvet heat was devastatingly precise, curling just right, coaxing out the sweet, aching tension that built behind her ribs and down her spine. She clenched around him, needy and breathless, as if her body was answering a question he hadn't spoken aloud—but already knew.

It was like he had memorized every response, every pitch of her moan, every twitch of her thighs. Like he’d mapped her soul through her skin. She was unraveling, not just physically, but piece by piece, under the weight of his devotion. She didn’t just feel owned—she felt seen, adored, cherished and undone all at once.

All the pretense she wore like armor melted away, leaving her raw and radiant beneath the certainty of his touch. Anchored, not because she had to be—but because she wanted to be. Because in this moment, with Dawson, there was no fear in surrender.

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