Page 9 of The Foreman
Too young. Too wild. Too dangerous.And yet, she’d always been the one who tempted him past every line he’d drawn for himself.
He’d told himself this before, right down to the cadence. It sounded like discipline. It felt like fear. The last time he mistook control for care, a civilian analyst bled out in a hallway while he was clearing rooms. He carried her last look like shrapnel and called it training.
Trace moved through the house in silence, checking every window and door out of habit. Every sensor glowed green. Every lock was secure. Still, he double-checked the bolt on theback mudroom door and then secured the breaker box with the locking latch.
Satisfied the perimeter was secure, he turned off the hallway light and headed upstairs.
Macy’s door was closed. Good. He didn’t trust himself near her tonight, not after what had happened at the club.
That spanking hadn’t been for play. It had been necessary. A ritual of control, yes, but also of protection. A reclaiming. A resetting of boundaries that had been violated three years ago and had never stopped haunting him.
But what shook him more than her submission was the fire in her eyes when she gave it.She’d wanted it.Not just endured it. Wanted it, and so had he.
Trace entered his bedroom and shut the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against it, breathing deep. The cool brush of damp air clung to his skin, mixing with the slight drag of aged leather against his fingertips.
It was going to be a long night. He toed off his boots, stripped off his shirt, and unfastened his belt. With practiced efficiency, he shoved his jeans down his hips and kicked them aside. Then he slid off his briefs and dropped them into the growing pile of clothes on the floor. He bent over and scooped them up, depositing his belt, wallet and keys on the dresser, before tossing his clothes in the hamper. Naked, he crossed to the master bath, turned the cold tap full blast, and stepped under the punishing spray.
The water hit like punishment, momentarily stealing his breath away. And it still wasn’t enough.
He braced one hand against the slick tile, every muscle in his back flexed and defined under the relentless sting of the cold spray. The water pelted his skin like sharp needles, dragging goosebumps across his flesh as it traced the dips and valleys ofhis shoulders. He clenched his jaw, every tendon in his neck taut, spine drawn tight like a wire about to snap.
His cock stood heavy and unyielding, throbbing with need, demanding release despite the ice-cold assault meant to douse it. Each drop that slid down his ribs felt like a taunt, a reminder of the woman in the guest room who’d once refused to kneel... until tonight.
He saw her face in his mind.
Heard her voice.
Felt her gasp under his hand.
God, the way she’d looked at him when she knelt. Like surrendering to him was both her punishment and her salvation. That heady combination of fear and want. Defiance and ache.
She was a mess. A brat. A liability. And for the foreseeable future, until they figured out what had really happened and cleared her name, she belonged to him.
He gripped himself with a rough snarl, hand tight around the thick length of his cock. He stroked with punishing force, not caring about finesse, chasing release with the same raw need clawing through his gut. There was nothing tender in the way his fist moved. This was possession. This was control. This was the way he wanted to claim her—mouth parted, throat slick, her eyes locked on his while he used her with unrelenting hunger. Every pull echoed with the thought of her lips stretched wide, her body trembling as she yielded, finally, completely, to him.
This wasn’t about pleasure.This was about survival.
He grunted as his climax hit, raw and explosive, the force of it stealing his breath. His knees buckled, one hand sliding down the tile for balance while the other kept stroking through the last throbs of release. Heat spilled over his knuckles, thick and hot against the cold air. He pressed his forehead hard to the wall, chest heaving, body twitching as the aftershocks rolled throughhim. His teeth clenched, a low growl vibrating in his throat as his muscles locked, the relief so sharp it bordered on pain.
But the release was hollow. It wasn't his hand he wanted, it was her.
He shut off the water and reached for a towel, drying off briskly and yanking on a pair of loose sleep pants before returning to the bedroom.
The house was silent.Too silent.
Trace paused at the door.
A soft creak on the landing. Quietly he opened the door andstepped into the hallway.
Macy was standing at the top of the stairs in one of his old T-shirts, barefoot, her hair damp and messy from the earlier rain. Her eyes were wide, uncertain, but still holding that damn spark that made him want to push her to the edge and catch her when she fell.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly. “Storm’s loud.”
He didn’t answer right away, because what he saw wasn’t a brat.It wasn’t a fugitive.
It was the girl who used to laugh too loud in the club foyer, who’d once danced naked on the bar, who had defied him at every turn but still watched him with hunger she never knew how to hide.
“Your room’s secure. You’re safe.”
