Page 29 of The Lasso Master

Reed didn’t just take. He branded her with intention, and for the first time, she felt the difference between being used and being chosen. This wasn't possession out of dominance—it was reverence in the shape of control. Every stroke of his touch hadspoken a distinctly different language than the ones from her past. Where others had stripped her down to nothing, he layered her in worth. In his hands, she wasn't a means to an end. She was the destination.

Her body was sore in all the right ways—from the pressure of the cuffs, the bruising grip of his hands, and the way his body had driven into hers with wild, possessive certainty. Her thighs ached, her wrists bore faint indentations, and her skin still hummed where his mouth had claimed her. Every mark was a memory. Every ache, a reminder. And she welcomed them.

Because in those moments, she hadn’t just given herself over—she’d been claimed, consumed.

For that brief stretch of time, she hadn’t been a thief or a liability. She’d been his. Entirely. Absolutely. And somehow, terrifyingly, it had felt like home.

And now, she had no idea what came next. No script, no fallback plan, no con to play. The freedom she’d chased for years was suddenly in her hands—and it terrified her. She wasn’t sure who she was without the job, the chase, the need to survive. But here, surrounded by Reed’s scent and his sheets, she thought maybe she could learn. Maybe freedom wasn’t about escape. Maybe it was about choosing to stay.

She stretched beneath the heavy quilt, muscles aching and skin hypersensitive, every inch of her body a living echo of what they’d done. Her thighs throbbed with bruised satisfaction, her wrists remembered the pressure of restraint, and her lips tingled with the ghost of his mouth. Beneath the fabric, her skin felt tight, too raw, too alive—as if his touch had rewired her nerves and left her body tuned to him. She didn’t want to move, not yet. She wanted to feel every flicker of sensation as it faded slow and sweet into memory.

Every movement reminded her of the night before—of his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body over hers. The soreness was a map of memory, and she let it bloom through her.

She let the warmth of the bed seep into her bones, grounding her in the now. It wasn’t just comfort—it was confirmation. She was here. She’d survived. She was his. And for once, she wasn’t afraid. Every shift reminded her of how thoroughly he'd taken her, how completely she'd given herself over. The quilt weighed heavy—not just with fabric, but with memory.

The bed smelled like them. Like sex and sweat, salt and skin. Like surrender and something rawer, something unspoken. Regret? Maybe. But woven through it all was something steadier, warmer. Something that made her breath catch and her eyes sting.

Safety. It seeped into her bones, unfamiliar and fragile, like a language she hadn't spoken in years. She wasn’t used to feeling safe. Not without conditions, not without an exit plan. And she was definitely not used to feeling wanted—not like this. Not stripped bare, unguarded, tangled in sheets that still held the imprint of his body. Wanted not just for her skill, her sharp edges, but for all the messy, vulnerable pieces she usually hid. Wanted for who she really was.

"You're awake." His voice was gravel and honey from the other side of the room.

She looked up to see him shirtless, muscles cut and golden in the early light, a mug of coffee in his hand. For a second, her breath caught. He looked like something out of a fever dream—too good, too solid, too real to be hers. She remembered the first time she'd seen him, all arrogance and command, the kind of man who looked like he'd never kneel for anything. And yet, here he was, bringing her coffee and watching her like she was gravity itself. It made something tight and warm uncurl deep in her chest. He leaned against the doorway, his gaze fixed on her withan intensity that sent heat curling low in her belly. He watched her like she was the most fragile, most dangerous thing in the world—and he had no intention of letting her vanish again.

"That obvious, huh?"

"You make the cutest faces when you're sleeping. Right before you wake, your brow furrows and it looks like the one you make when you're overthinking."

She snorted. "It's called having a brain. You should try it sometime." She nodded toward the mug of steaming coffee.

His smile was slow and lethal. "Got it from the kitchen," he said, as if reading her mind. "You were out cold. Figured you might need something warm when you came back to the land of the living."

He crossed the room with that unhurried prowl that always made her thighs clench, each step radiating a controlled power that set her pulse skittering. The morning light traced his bare torso, highlighting the sinew of muscle across his shoulders and the ink at his ribs.

He set the coffee on the nightstand with deliberate care, his movements calm, but she could feel the tension underneath—like a fuse lit and waiting.

He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that the warmth of his skin brushed against her, a heat that seeped beneath the covers and surrounded her like a claim. She inhaled, and the scent of him hit her full force—rich coffee, clean sweat, leather, and the raw, unmistakable musk of sex.

Her thighs clenched. Her skin prickled. Just that scent, just that proximity, and her body remembered everything they'd done, everything she'd begged for. It pulled her in all over again, like gravity bending her back toward him.

"Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish, little thief."

God, that name. It did things to her. She bit the inside of her cheek, then glanced down at the sheets. "Last night was..."

"Everything," he finished.

She nodded.

He brushed a hand down her arm, his fingers grazing the same bite mark. "You're not running again."

It wasn’t a question.

"No."

His eyes darkened. "Say it."

She swallowed, her heart thudding. "I'm not running."

The next moment, he was on top of her, his weight pinning her to the mattress with a force that made her breath hitch and her thighs part on instinct. He pressed into her like he needed to fuse their bodies together, like the space between them had become intolerable. His hands tangled in her hair, yanking just enough to make her gasp, tilting her head to bare her throat.

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