Page 108 of Deacon

“If I have to pick between my land and you…well, I’d rather not,” he says. “I’m taking you out of this, so I can fight dirty.”

My anger ebbs and flows. This isn’t my fight. This is men doing what they do best. I’d have been just as happy with a shack in the woods, so long as I could be at peace. But no, they have to fight each other for money, for who’s got a bigger metaphorical dick. And, of course, land.

“Look at me,” he says.

I drag my eyes up. He’s towering over me. His palm touches my elbow and drags up to my throat, wrapping around it. Thump, thump—my pulse flutters in his grip and between my thighs. My body understands what he’s doing, even if my head doesn’t.

He leans in, mouth brushing my hair. “Run again, and I won’t be gentle.”

I’ve learned that Deacon Ryder is gentle, but only until he chooses not to be. He has complete control over himself. But sometimes, he likes to unhook the leash and let whatever this dark shadow is out to play.

I go limp in his arms. The only way out is forward, but he won’t let me go, won’t let me leave until he reclaims what he thinks is his.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I should have never let him pick me up in that storm. Maybe I never had a choice. He lied, said the highway was closed. He said so many things. Now, he has a lock on my pussy.

I underestimated Deacon Ryder.

“Get on your knees,” he orders. “Hands behind your back.”

I glance up, unsure if he wants me to kneel on the floor or the bed. He points at his feet, facing the fireplace. Shivering, I sink to my knees and tuck my hands back.

The fire dances before my eyes. Everything else is darkness, even him.

I think I’ve been hunted and captured.

The dresser drawer opens and shuts. He sinks down on the end of the bed so I’m kneeling, facing away, between his boots. Cool leather slips over my shoulders. I feel him securing a row of straps down both arms and pulling them snug. My arms are completely pinned in a sheath of leather.

“Sit up off your heels,” he says.

His words are thick, sitting deep in his chest. I know beneath his work pants, he’s hard.

I lift an inch, and he slides two thick bands of leather around my lower thighs. They secure with black buckles, like garters. Everything smells like real leather, and the inside is soft silk. I tilt my head, noticing there are words burnt into the leather, one for each thigh.

Cum.

Slut.

Oh God, I wasn’t expecting that. He gets up again and returns, crouching behind me. His inked hand appears in my lap, holding asmooth rod with two clips at each end. I’m nervous, but I don’t speak. I want to believe he won’t hurt me. He hasn’t yet, but he’s never been like this before.

My spine tingles, warning me to be careful.

But my pussy is wet, like it’s already been conquered.

He clips each end of the rod to the leather garters, shoving my legs further apart to make it fit. It clicks, and my legs are locked open. He rises and circles me, the front of his pants just above my head. I look up, and he looks down, touching my temple.

“You want out, you say your safeword. If you can’t speak, you shake your head hard, side to side,” he says. “Understood?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

With his boot, he shoves my thighs further apart, and the rod clicks again, keeping me spread.

“No, you address me the way I taught you.”

Cowed, I drop my head. His boots swim in my vision, heavy tread, steel toe.

“Yes, daddy,” I manage.

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