Page 25 of The Tracker

Evangeline’s gaze flicked to him, slow and deliberate, the corner of her mouth curving—not in a smile, but something far more dangerous: challenge. Her head tilted slightly, assessing him like a chess opponent, daring him to make the next move, the air between them crackling with unspoken demand.

He hadn’t even touched her yet, and his body was already strung tight with the kind of arousal that had stalked him all night. If she’d walked out into the room earlier—spun around in that dress with mischief in her eyes—he might have pinned her against the nearest wall and taken her without preamble, without words. Not because he was weak, but because she made him crave surrender in ways that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with need.

But he didn't let himself give in—not because he didn’t want to, but because if he touched her now, there’d be no stopping. No walking away. And tonight wasn’t about giving in to impulse. It was about drawing the line before it disappeared completely.

“You need to tell me to leave, Evangeline.”

He wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say. Part of him longed for her to send him away, to give him an excuse to retreat behind the walls he’d spent years fortifying. But another part—hungrier, more reckless—hoped she’d ask him to stay, to step over that invisible line and never look back.

Her eyebrows arched. "Do I?"

He crossed to her in two steps, stopping just short of touching her. “Yes because once this starts, it doesn’t stop until I say it does. You want more, you get it. But you get it my way.”

Something sparked in her eyes. “Then show me.”

His breath caught. Christ, she didn’t even flinch—didn’t blink, didn’t break eye contact. Her stillness wasn’t fear, but something far more dangerous: intent. The kind of raw, focused submission that ignited every dominant instinct he’d ever buried deep.

He hated to break the intimacy that seemed to be building, but he also didn't want to proceed until they both knew the other was safe and that with her he preferred to not have to use a condom. “I'd prefer not to use condoms..."

"Plural?" she sassed.

He nodded. "Count on it. I’m clean. Regular tests through work. You?”

She nodded, more solemn now. “Also clean, and on birth control. I'd prefer nothing between us as well.”

“Good.”

He reached down and took her hand, lifting it slowly until her wrist was exposed. Then the other. Her pulse beat fast under his fingers. “You don’t move unless I tell you to. You speak when I ask. You stop this with one word—red. Understand?”

That boundary, that pause, wasn’t hesitation—it was discipline. Years of field protocol, trauma intervention, and Dom training had ingrained the importance of informed consent so deeply it lived in his muscle memory. When someone put theirbody in your hands, it wasn’t a thrill—it was trust. Sacred. Absolute.

A tremor ran through her. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

He leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear, warm breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck. “Then stand up and strip.”

His voice wrapped around her like velvet and steel. The heat of her body bled into his space, brushing against his self-control like a match to dry tinder. The cool loft air kissed his skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire curling low and hot in his gut. Her scent—jasmine laced with something darker—wrapped around him, familiar and utterly female.

She rose, slow and trembling. Her eyes stayed locked on his as she slid the dress down her body, the silky fabric whispering over her skin and pooling at her feet. A faint shiver chased down her spine as the cool loft air kissed her bare flesh, the contrast to the lingering heat of his gaze making her nerves sing. The faint scent of her perfume rose between them, thickening the tension until it pressed against her skin as palpably as his hands soon would. No bra. No panties. Just flushed skin and fire in her gaze.

Her nipples peaked as if begging for his touch, the temperature shift painting her skin in goosebumps. His restraint stretched taut as her breath hitched, lips parted, body already pliant with anticipation—and she hadn’t even moved.

He didn’t touch her yet. He circled her with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze scorching a path across her bare skin. Every inch of her was cataloged—flushed cheeks, the subtle tremble in her thighs, the hard points of her nipples, the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing quickened. His presence wrapped around her like heat from a furnace, heavy and consuming, the air thick with the scent of anticipation and arousal.

"You’re beautiful," he murmured, voice rough. "But you already know that. I’m going to show you something more. What it means to belong."

She swallowed hard, the sound barely audible, her pulse a wild flutter beneath the skin of her throat. Heat flashed through her body, anticipation laced with something sharper. Her thighs quivered, not with fear, but with the need to be touched, claimed, taken.

“On your back on the bed, hands above your head."

Her lips parted on a shallow breath as she slowly turned and crawled onto the bed, her skin humming with the promise of what was coming.

Her lithe form quivering like a leaf in a storm, her porcelain skin painted with the rosy hue of desire. He retrieved a pair of supple leather cuffs from his weathered duffel bag at the foot of the bed—a constant companion, a habit born of experience. He had to leave his kit there as he had never had a woman in his bed, his space, his life.

The scent of aged leather filled the air as he wrapped the cuffs around her wrists, securing them with a practiced touch before fastening her to the headboard, each movement slow and intentional. He supposed that buying the patinaed brass bed had been an act of optimism—a quiet belief that someday, he would share it with someone who belonged there beside him. There were numerous ways he could restrain her. The damn thing seemed to have been built for D/s play. The room itself was bathed in the soft glow of the dim lamp light, casting long, dramatic shadows that danced with the rhythm of their breaths.

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