Page 5 of The Foreman
"You want my protection, you live by my rules. My discipline. My control. No arguments."
"You want me to submit to you? Just like that?"
"No," he said. "I want you to choose to submit because you know it's the best way to keep you alive."
Reed straightened from his position. "I'll leave you two to work it out. I’ll be in the war room."
"Why does it have to be him," she said, unable to decide if she was thrilled or scared to death.
"Because it does," answered Reed. "Business has been good and we're going to need to keep this one off the books. So it's Trace or you find someone else. I can refer you to several other good agencies here in Texas, or you can take your chances with law enforcement."
The door clicked shut.
Trace stepped closer. "This isn’t a game, Macy. You want help? You want safety? You do it my way. You follow my lead. And you take what I give you. Including the consequences."
As he spoke, his fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist. A glancing touch, soft as silk, maddening in its precision. Her skin lit up, nerve endings sparking in a trail that shot up her arm, straight to her chest, coiling low in her belly with a throb that was anything but subtle. It wasn’t the touch itself, but the memory it reawakened—his hands on her, not tentative but claiming, commanding, trusted. Her breath stuttered.
Macy hated how her knees softened. How that tiny graze burned hotter than a slap. She stiffened, caught between her instinct to recoil and the molten throb that rolled through her belly. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly.
She told herself it was only memory, not need, which is what she'd been telling herself for the past three years.
She hated the way her body leaned a fraction toward his heat before she could stop herself. Hated the way the contact ignited a pulse surging through her system, hot and instantaneous, like a dare.
And Trace? That bastard didn't even blink. He knew exactly what he was doing.
His hand dropped, the absence of his touch somehow louder than the contact itself. But her skin still burned, the ghost of his fingers trailing down her arm, circling her wrist like a phantom shackle. Her thighs pressed together without thought, the heat low in her belly winding tighter with every breath. It was maddening how her body remembered him, wanted him, while her mind begged her to build her walls higher, thicker, impenetrable.
Still, he stood there, composed and detached, while she fought not to unravel from a single touch.She laughed. It sounded too high. "God, you really do get off on this power trip."
"Yes, and so do you."
His voice was calm. Steady. Unyielding.And something in her belly clenched tight.
"You always were a hard-headed little thing," he murmured. "But you don’t fool me. Not now. Not then. You want someone to take control. You need it. And you want it from me."
Macy glared. "Go to hell."
"Already been. Still might be preferable to having to deal with you."
That stung and she tried not to flinch. She stood her ground. Chest heaving. Eyes wild.
"Fine," she snapped, trying to find equilibrium. "Let’s get this over with. Spank me, cowboy. I’ll even bend over your damn desk."
His gaze darkened. Slow. Lethal.
"No, darlin'. We start how we mean to go on. You want my protection? Strip. Kneel. And ask me."
She opened her mouth to argue and then closed it. She didn't really have a choice, at least not one she wanted, and they both knew it. The rain hammered harder against the windows. Her heart beat faster than the storm.
Slowly, she opened the robe and let it slip from her shoulders as she knelt on the floor in front of him. "Please, Sir. I need your help, and I am ready to accept your discipline."
Trace took a step back and retrieved a straight back chair, placing it in front of her. He extended his hand and she placed her own in his. She knew this was more than his helping her to rise, it was all part of the ritual, part of her acknowledging his dominance and agreeing to submit.
How long had it been since a Dom's discipline left her feeling this needy and vulnerable? Three years, she told herself, but that wasn’t true. It had been much longer than that. She hadn’t felt pressured to accept Trace’s discipline. She knew Reed Malone well enough to know, he never would have turned her out into the night. He had his reasons, as did Trace, and despiteeverything, she trusted both of them enough to know she was safe.
Trace helped her over his knee. He didn't pull or force in any way. This too was part of the ritual, part of the non-verbal communication between Dom and sub. She settled over his lap and exhaled slowly, letting her body go limp.
Macy sensed his hand hovering over her bare ass before she felt the sting of the first smack. She reached down and grasped his leg, craving their connection more than balance. In that moment, she needed it all: not just the service of a professional disciplinarian, but the genuine intimacy she knew Trace could provide. Another strike sent shivers down her spine, a tingling heat spreading over her in a rush that stole her breath away.
