Page 6 of The Foreman
Two more blows landed, each one blooming fire across her flesh in searing waves that rolled through her like molten flame. Her hips twitched in response, an involuntary surrender, and her fingers dug into his leg as her body trembled with aching need.
She could feel the blood racing beneath the surface, her pulse pounding between her thighs. This wasn’t just pain, it was a promise, a dark seduction unraveling her breath by breath. If she held still, if she yielded completely, her body would answer with a pleasure so fierce it would fracture her, and she craved that breaking point like a starving woman.
He didn't hold back. Each blow more forceful than the last; tears streaming down her cheeks as she endured every impact. She didn't want to cry, but it felt so good to surrender to the cadence of pain and pleasure. In this space, all thoughts vanished. She simply existed within each sensation: the strikes against her flesh, the burning ache in their wake, and the small surges of peace accompanying each one.
Finally, his punishing hand stilled and he gently placed his palm on her reddened skin; the warmth soothed thelingering burn beneath his touch. His low voice murmured in appreciation: "You did well Macy. I'd forgotten how truly beautiful you are like this. Your skin is the most lovely shade of pink."
It was the most intimate praise she'd ever received from him. Trace had always been known for keeping a professional distance. This candid admiration shattered her last hesitation. She leaned her body against his, parting her legs just enough to signal her need.
Her arousal was evident as he teasingly traced the crease of her inner thigh, inching closer to the throbbing wetness between her legs. Time seemed to stand still as she anticipated his touch; she feared that if he explored that tender spot, she would lose control, moaning uninhibitedly while climaxing around his probing fingers.
She knew she would obey without question if he pushed her off his lap and onto the desk, lowered his trousers, and took possession of her quivering body. This moment was everything she’d been secretly wanting for so long.
Then, without any kind of warning,he pulled away and helped her to her feet. Biting her lip to suppress a whimper, Macy ached for more, the potent realization that it still wasn't enough searing through her core.
"I'll have Becky bring you something to wear. Get dressed and get your other things," he said with a nod to her still drenched clothing and the bag she'd managed to escape with before coming to the Iron Spur. "I'll be waiting for you down in reception. We'll take the back exit to the secure lot so we can avoid the CCTV cameras. Don't take too long."
She stared at the door as it closed behind him. Had she chosen right? Had she chosen wrong? It was too early to tell.
2
MACY
The ride to his ranch was mostly silent. Except for the hum of tires on wet asphalt and the occasional crackle of the radio. Trace didn’t talk. Just drove. Like a man who knew what came next, wasn’t in any rush to get there, and wasn't inclined to share that information with her.
Macy had never known him to be a talker, not in scenes, not in passing. But this silence felt different. It wasn't brooding. It was deliberate. Dominant. It wrapped around her like a hand to the throat—steady, unrelenting, and laced with control.
She remembered another night, years ago, when he’d pulled her aside after she’d mouthed off to a Dom twice her size. He hadn’t said a word. Just stared at her until her pulse fluttered, until she couldn’t decide if she wanted to slap him or sink to her knees.
That same heat prickled at the edges of her now.It shouldn’t have felt like foreplay. But damn it, it did.Macy's whole erotic system buzzed with agitation, adrenaline and arousal. That was rarely a good thing.
She'd never meant to go back to the Iron Spur. Had never thought she would need the services of the Silver Spur Security team. Still, here she was headed to the middle of nowhere withthe man who’d once banned her from the only place she’d ever felt remotely seen.
The man she used to have filthy dreams about. Dreams that left her needing a cold shower when she woke. Swell, just swell.
The storm still raged when they turned onto a long gravel drive. The headlights hit a split-rail fence and a low stone ranch house tucked against the tree line.
He pulled behind the house and parked. Smart man. The truck wouldn't be easy to spot unless you were close to the house and outbuilding. Macy was sure by then Trace's security system would have picked up any intruder.
"Is this the part where you threaten me with a whip and chain?" she asked.
He arched an eyebrow. "Whip? Maybe. Chain? Never. That may have been your kink, but it was never mine."
She snorted. "It was hypothetical."
"Sure it was."
Inside, the house was clean, sparse, masculine. Wood floors. Leather furniture. Exposed beams. Everything was dark and hard, a deliberate extension of the man who’d brought her here. There were no frills, no warmth, no softness. Yet the tension that tightened in her chest wasn’t from fear. It was a heady mix of anticipation and arousal.
This was a Dom’s space. Controlled. Uncompromising. Designed to keep the outside world at bay.
Her fingers twitched against her thigh as she crossed the threshold. It was the kind of house that didn’t just demand respect—it commanded it. And somehow, standing in the middle of it, Macy felt both completely intimidated and completely seen.
She swallowed. Her heartbeat thudded harder than the rain outside. And her body, traitor that it was, responded to the power in the air like it had just found home.
"Nice digs for a grumpy cowboy."
"Try not to break anything."
