Page 41 of The Foreman
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Good morning to you, too, Sir.”
The word hit him like a match to dry tinder. She’d used it deliberately, drawing out the edge between respect and defiance. He didn’t move, just studied her, letting the silence stretch until her toes curled against the stone floor.
Finally, she huffed. “You know, at the office you probably have people scrambling when you give an order. Here, you’ve got me. And I’m not exactly your compliant employee.”
“True.” He set the mug down and rose, crossing the kitchen slowly, letting the weight of his presence press against her. “At the office I help keep order. Here, I keep order over you.”
Her breath caught, quick but not frightened. She tilted her chin higher, daring him. “That a promise or a threat?”
He closed the last of the distance, fingers hooking lightly under her jaw. “A rule. Don’t confuse the two.”
Her eyes flashed, and he knew she wanted to argue. She lived to push lines, to see what would break. At the office, that streak made her a force to be reckoned with.
Anyone who thought Macy limited herself to paperwork had never seen her order Reed to finish his reports or Hawke to account for his liquor tab. She owned every room she walked into.
Her voice carried a moment later, snark wrapped around authority. Reed grumbled, Hawke fired back, and Macy cut them both down with a laugh and a snarkyretort.
But, here in his house, it was fire he meant to harness.
“You’re staring again,” she said, softer now, lashes lowering as if the heat between them unsettled her as much as it did him.
Trace let his thumb trace the curve of her jaw before dropping his hand. “I’m deciding whether you need breakfast or discipline first.”
Her laugh came fast, nervous and genuine all at once. “And which way are you leaning?”
“Both.” He turned, opening the fridge with deliberate calm. “Sit. Eat first. You’ll need the strength.”
She hesitated, then slid into the chair he’d just left, tugging at the hem of his shirt as if that thin cotton offered any protection from his gaze.
As he set eggs and bacon in the skillet, Trace let his mind drift again to the Riverwalk offices. There, discipline was procedure—timelines, encryption keys, field ops flowing from command. At the ranch, discipline was simpler. One woman. Clear rules. Immediate consequences. Yet the stakes felt higher. If he lost control here, he wouldn’t just risk an op. He’d risk her.
The sizzle of bacon filled the kitchen, grounding him. He plated the food and set it in front of her. Macy’s eyes lifted, a mix of gratitude and mischief.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, then added with a grin, “Sir.”
Trace arched a brow. “Eat. Then we’ll settle the rest.”
She picked up her fork, but her gaze stayed locked on his, daring him again, testing how far she could push before he snapped. And he knew, with the same certainty he felt when he’d walked into firefights, that before this day was over, he’d have her bent over his knee again—reminding exactly who held the control she craved.
By afternoon the ranch was quiet, the team gone, chores finished. Trace found Macy in his office, feet propped on his desk, flipping through files like she already owned the place. She looked up when he entered, lips curving.
“Careful, cowboy. Leave me in charge much longer and I’ll add your name back to the payroll.”
He set a small black box on the desk beside her boots. “Already feels like you own me.”
Her eyes flicked to the box, suspicion sparking. “That better not be sparkly. I don’t do tiaras.”
“Not sparkly.” He tugged her boots off the desk and pulled her upright until her chest brushed his. Her sass flickered but didn’t vanish. It never did.
“You look like a man about to issue orders,” she teased. Macy studied his face, the small lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago. “You’re not just thinking about tonight,” she said softly.
He studied her like a man checking a horizon for weather. He had spent years calling love a liability. With her, it felt like armor.
“I’m thinking about all of it,” Trace answered, and the truth of it steadied the air between them. “Always.” His mouth grazed her ear. “Upstairs. Now.”
Her shiver betrayed anticipation. “Yes, Sir.”
The playroom above his bedroom breathed shadows and promise. Trace lit candles one by one, letting the glow soften theedges of steel and wood. He guided Macy to the center, stripped her slowly, every button and zipper peeled away until she stood bare, chin high, eyes steady. She didn’t flinch. She never did.
