Page 44 of The Tracker

She obeyed, and he wrapped the belt around her wrists, leather pulling snug. Not for restraint—but to remind her who she belonged to in this moment.

"You look up at me like that again and I’m not going to last," he muttered, voice dark.

She smiled—defiant, gorgeous, unafraid.

He guided himself between her lips, groaning at the heat of her mouth, the eager glide of her tongue. She sucked him deep, moaning around him, eyes locked with his until he had to grip the back of her head and pull free.

"Bed. On your back."

He undid the belt and tossed it aside. She scrambled onto the mattress, legs falling open, skin flushed. He grabbed her thighs, dragged her to the edge.

"Hands over your head. Don’t move them."

“Yes, sir."

The way she said it made his chest tighten. It reminded him of a time he'd let those words mean more than they should, a time when vulnerability had led to ruin. But now, wrapped in her voice, they stirred pride and dread in equal measure.

He bent down and licked a path from her knee to her inner thigh, pausing as her breath hitched and her thighs tensed under his grip. Her gaze locked with his, a plea and a dare in her eyes. The way her body reacted—immediate, open, wanting—tightened something possessive inside him, deliberately skipping where she was slick and aching for him. She whimpered.

He pressed a kiss to her mound, then sucked her clit between his lips until she cried out. Two fingers slid inside, curling just right. Her hands fisted in the sheets, arms shaking, but she didn’t move them.

"You’re doing so damn good for me," he whispered, tongue flicking hard.

She came with a choked sob, thighs trembling, hands still anchored above her. Dawson froze there a moment, watching her quake, her breath catch, her lips parting for a word she didn’t say. She trusted him this far—trusted him with the pieces of herself most people never earned. That trust was a damnresponsibility, and he felt the weight of it in his chest like a brand.

Dawson didn’t let her breathe.

He kissed up her body, trailing his mouth along the heated curve of her skin, each touch deliberate and reverent. He paused at her hip, then her ribs, leaving a mark with his teeth just beneath her breast. Her chest heaved beneath him, her lips parted in silent anticipation, eyes glassy with need.

Then he drove into her in one slow, devastating push. Her gasp sliced through the air—pure surrender, not pain. Her legs locked around his hips, and the arch of her spine invited him deeper. The feel of her—tight, slick, and welcoming—threatened to undo him completely. He pulled back, bracing himself above her, gaze locked with hers, letting the moment stretch between them like a drawn bowstring before his next thrust shattered the silence. Her gasp wasn’t pain—it was surrender.

He braced one hand beside her head and used the other to pin both her wrists down, driving into her with deep, punishing strokes. She met every thrust like she needed it, like she needed him.

Their rhythm built fast, furious. She shattered again under him, crying out his name. She looked up at him then—wild, wrecked—and whispered, “Don’t let go.”

His breath faltered. "Never," he answered, voice stripped bare.

Dawson let go of fear, of control, of every wall he'd ever built. It rushed out of him in a flood of heat and hunger—muscles tightening, breath catching, the ache of holding back replaced by raw, visceral release. It wasn’t just his body breaking—it was every guarded instinct, every buried need. She took it all and gave him more. He came with a roar, burying himself in her, shuddering.

They stayed tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Her fingers traced the scar on his shoulder, slow and deliberate, like she was memorizing it. He stared at the ceiling, listening to her heartbeat slow against his chest.

"I believe in you," she murmured.

He hadn’t asked her to—but hearing it unlocked something quiet and brutal inside him. It wasn’t just comfort. It was belief in a man who’d long since stopped believing in himself. The scar she touched had come from another life, another betrayal, and somehow her touch rewrote the story it told. He didn’t know what came next—but for the first time in years, he wanted to find out. He kissed her forehead. Gentle. Honest.

The phone buzzed.

Dawson reached for it.

JESSE: Surveillance flagged something. You need to see this. I’ll meet you at Shaw Petrochemical

He looked down at Evangeline, sprawled across his bed, flushed, marked and dangerous.

They were gunning for her… they were going to regret it.

Dawson thumbed a reply to Jesse with one hand while the other slid under the nightstand drawer, fingers brushing the cold steel of his Glock. The weight of it was reassuring. He didn’t know what the surveillance had picked up, but his gut said it wasn’t good—and his gut was rarely wrong. He eased off the mattress, grabbed a pair of jeans, and slung his holster over his shoulder.

Evangeline stirred, watching him with sleepy wariness. "Bad?"

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