Page 13 of The Foreman
They moved around each other in the kitchen with a simmering tension that clung to every brush of skin and shift in the air. When her shoulder grazed his body, Trace felt a sharp pulse that gripped low in his gut and tightened across his chest. Her arm slid past his as she reached for a spoon, her fingers grazing his forearm. His pulse kicked in response, low and steady, building heat beneath his stern composure.
Every accidental touch felt intentional. Every inhale too sharp. Every exhale too measured. He knew she felt it too. There was an unspoken dare between them, tempting him to drop the rules and take what they both knew was already his... if he'd admit that he wanted it. The tension didn’t ease. It changed. Twisted into something hotter.
When Macy reached past him, her chest pressed flush against his back, the soft weight of her breasts catching him off guard. The contact lit up every nerve ending, a burst of heat that surged down his spine and coiled tight in his lower belly. Her breath ghosted against the back of his neck, slow and deliberate, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.
She didn’t move away. Her body lingered against his, unapologetic. And he didn’t shift either, locked in place by the sudden, visceral ache to turn, pin her to the counter, and taste everything she kept daring him to want.
“Is this what domestic bliss looks like?” she murmured.
He set down the spoon and turned.Her face was inches from his.
“Macy.”
She looked up at him, heat simmering in her eyes.
For a breathless second, all he saw was desire, raw and barely bridled, right there for the taking. He could have kissed her. Should have. Wanted to. But he didn’t.Instead, he stepped back.
“You should eat.”
She blinked. “If that's the best that's being offered."
She sat at the table while he plated thick slices of grilled steak, roasted sweet potatoes, and a medley of blistered peppers and onions. The sizzle still clung to the air from the cast iron pan, and the heat rising off the plates matched the heat simmering between them. They ate in silence for a while, each bite punctuated by the clink of forks and the hum of tension that hadn’t dulled in the slightest.
Finally, she set her fork down.“You pull away from me like I’m fire.”
He didn’t look up.“You are.”
“I thought you liked fire.”
“I do.”He met her eyes then, calm and impenetrable.“But I’m not stupid enough to play with it in my own house. I onlyplay with fire under the controlled environment of the club with the proper safety measures present.”
She stared at him, wounded pride flickering behind her lashes. "You're all about control and safety. Boring." She dragged the last word out in a sing-song tone.Then she pushed back from the table and stood.“I’m going for a walk.”
“I don't want you anywhere you can't see the house or I can't see you from the front porch.”
“I’m not your prisoner.”
“No, but you are my protectee, which means you’re not free, either.”
She didn’t answer. He could see her thinking about it and deciding to hold her tongue. She shook her head,turned and walked out the back door.
Trace didn’t follow. His body tensed like a wire pulled too tight, every instinct screaming at him to go after her, to make her come back, to bend her over the porch rail and remind her what obedience looked like. But he stayed rooted, jaw locked, his stance wide, arms held rigid like he was barely keeping himself from striding after her and dragging her back inside. Chasing her now would mean giving in to all the things he couldn't afford. His job was to protect her, not indulge in the fantasy of owning her.
Not yet. Not like that. Not when every nerve in his body screamed to take what she kept offering with her eyes, her mouth, her whole damn presence. He stood at the window, one hand braced against the frame, watching as she reached the edge of the clearing and stopped short of the trees. Good girl. She knew better than to test his limits. The wind tugged at her hair, and even from this distance, he could see the tilt of her chin, proud and unrepentant.
A dense pressure gathered in his chest, hot and insistent, pressing against the inside of his ribs like a brand he couldn’tshake. She was a temptation he couldn't afford to chase. Not now. Not when the line between protecting her and possessing her blurred more with every breath.
She thought this was about control. She didn’t see the predators circling, or the trap she was close to springing. She didn’t see what it cost him to keep his hands off her, to treat her like a mission instead of a need. And she sure as hell didn’t see that he wasn’t just trying to protect her from the danger outside—he was trying to protect her from himself.
4
MACY
Macy had barely made it to the edge of the treeline before nerves got the better of her. The sun filtered through the branches, dappled light shifting across the dirt path as her boots scuffed over the dry earth. A breeze stirred the leaves, lifting the ends of her hair and whispering warnings she couldn’t quite hear. It wasn't the woods that bothered her, it was the stillness. The sense of being watched.
After a few minutes of trying to shake the unease, she turned around and made her way back to the house. Her boots scraped against the dry path with every step, the weight of her anxiety trailing behind her like a shadow. The porch came into view, its sun-warmed boards promising a comfort she didn’t feel. She didn’t pick up her pace. If anything, she slowed, forcing herself to breathe through the churning in her chest.
By the time she reached the door, her hands trembled slightly, not from cold, but from the icy realization that fear wasn’t always loud. Sometimes, it whispered from the silence. She shivered as she slipped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click, and tried to tell herself that whatever waited in here, at least it had a name and a face.
