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16

Jackson

The string quartet shifts to a slower melody as Shiloh moves against me, her spine straight despite the exhaustion I can feel in her muscles. The weight of her hand in mine, the brush of her silk gown against my tuxedo—every point of contact feeds a hunger that’s been building all night. But it’s the subtle tremor in her fingers that makes my jaw clench. She’s fighting this just as hard as I am.

I adjust my steps, taking more of her weight. Her new heels must be killing her by now, though she’d rather die than admit it. My thumb strokes across her knuckles before I can catch myself. These small gestures of comfort are dangerous—they reveal too much.

“The storm’s getting worse.” She tilts her head toward the ballroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows, where lightning illuminates clouds heavy with promise. “We should head back to the ranch.”

The ranch. My territory. Where I can strip her out of the gown that’s been driving me mad all night. But the memory of that creditor’s hands on her arm, the way she tensed when he approached—my fingers tighten on her waist.

“Black ice on the mountain roads by now.” My voice comes out darker than intended. I’ve checked the radar three times in the last hour. The storm’s only getting worse, and I won’t risk her safety, no matter how much I’m using it as an excuse to keep her close.

Thunder cracks overhead as I guide her off the dance floor. Another businessman steps forward with his hand raised to catch my attention. One look at the shadows under Shiloh’s eyes has me cutting him off with a sharp head shake. Business can wait.

My hand settles at the small of her back as we retrieve our things from the coat check. She’s shivering—the subtle kind she thinks I don’t notice. Without a word, I drape my coat over her shoulders. She stiffens, probably fighting the urge to reject even this small gesture, but exhaustion wins. The sight of her wrapped in my clothing sends possession burning through my veins.

“The Westbrook,” I say, intent on getting her naked and flat beneath me as quickly as possible.

The brief walk to my truck through the parking garage gives me too much time to appreciate how she looks in my jacket. The black wool swallows her, highlighting her short stature in a way that makes my hands itch to possess every fucking inch.

Ten minutes later, the hotel lobby glitters with displaced gala attendees, the storm having trapped half of Denver’s elite. I position myself between Shiloh and the crowd, not missing how she sways slightly on her feet. Forty minutes of dancing in those heels, and she’s still standing straight as a queen. My proud, stubborn beauty.

“No rooms available,” the front desk clerk apologizes, wilting under my stare.

“The presidential suite.” I slide my black AmEx across the counter, cutting off her practiced speech. “And send up whatever tea service you have that isn’t Earl Grey.” Shiloh hates it—a detail I shouldn’t know, shouldn’t hoard like gold.

The elevator ride stretches endlessly. Three other couples crowd in with us, forcing her closer. The scent of her perfume wraps around me, vanilla and a darker scent that sets me on fire. Her breath catches when I drag her against me with my hand on her hip, but she doesn’t pull away.

By the time we reach the highest floor, we’re alone again, and I’m aching to take her right there, to hike up that stunning dress and remind her she’s mine. The elevator doors open before my fingers creep higher than her thigh, and I twine her fingers in mine as we hurry toward our suite.

The door closes behind us with a soft click. In the sudden silence, I can hear her heartbeat, see the pulse fluttering in her throat above my jacket collar. She reaches for the light switch, but I catch her wrist.

“Don’t.” My voice has dropped to gravel. Lightning flashes through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her in stark shadows and silver light. “I want to see you like this.”

“Giving orders already?” She tilts her chin up—that familiar defiance that makes me want to conquer and protect in equal measure.

“Always.” I step closer, backing her toward the window. Thunder crashes outside as I slide my jacket from her shoulders.

Her perfume fills my lungs as I close the last distance between us. My hand finds her throat, thumb brushing over her mother’s silver pendant. Her pulse races under my touch, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t submit. Not yet.

“We could have made it back to the ranch.” Her voice holds that edge that always makes me want to shatter her control. “The roads aren’t that bad.”

“I’m not sharing you with fifty miles of icy roads.” The words scrape out of my throat as I back her against the window. “Not when you look like this. Not when I’ve watched men stare at you all night.” Cold glass meets her bare shoulders, drawing a gasp I swallow with my mouth.

She kisses me back with that familiar mix of defiance and desire that drives me mad. My hands fist in the silk of her dress, but some part of me still catches the shiver that runs through her. Before I can stop myself, I’m reaching for the thermostat controls.

The movement breaks our kiss. Dark and hungry need twists in my chest at the sight of her lips, swollen from my attention. I spin her to face the window, pinning her hands above her head. “You’ve been fighting this all night.” My teeth graze her neck as Salvation’s lights sparkle below us. “Even though we both want it.”

Instead of struggling against my grip, she arches back into me. The willing surrender in that small movement rocks through me like lightning. This isn’t her usual capitulation—a temporary ceasefire in our war of wills. This is different. Dangerous.

My fingers tighten on her wrists as panic claws up my throat. “Tell me to stop.”

“No.” The word falls soft and sure from her lips.

For the first time since I orchestrated her submission, I’m the one who feels trapped. My careful plans scatter like ashes on the wind as she turns her head, meeting my eyes with a trust I don’t deserve. Everything in me screams to look away, to reclaim the distance that’s kept me safe. But I find myself drowning as my free hand slides down her throat to rest over her thundering heart.

“You’re mine.” The words come out more raw plea than command.

Her only answer is a soft exhale that fogs the glass. The sight of her reflection—eyes half-closed, lips parted—snaps what remains of my restraint. I release her wrists to grip her hips, spinning her to face me. The force of it rustles her silk gown, a whisper of fabric that sounds like surrender.

“Look at me.” My voice is barely recognizable. When she obeys instantly, something wild and possessive tears through my chest. My hands clench in her dress, probably ruining the delicate fabric. I can’t bring myself to care. “I won’t be gentle.”

“I know.” Two simple words that shred my control. Her fingers find my tie, tugging it loose with deliberate slowness. Testing me.

I catch her hands, pinning them back against the glass. “I want you, and I’ve waited so fucking long for you to want me back.” The admission scrapes out of my throat. “Watching you fight me. Watching you pretend you don’t want this.” My teeth find her throat, just above my pendant. “No more pretending.”

She gasps—pain or pleasure, it hardly matters. Both belong to me now. The thought should satisfy the possessive hunger that’s driven me for months. Instead, it terrifies me. I cover my confusion with action, dragging my mouth down the elegant line of her neck. Her pulse races under my tongue, and I realize I’m counting the beats, cataloging every response like something precious instead of proof of ownership.

A knock at the door startles us both. “Room service.”

“Ignore it,” she says. But I’m already reaching to adjust her dress where it slipped off one shoulder. My fingers linger on her skin, gentle when they should be demanding. What the hell is wrong with me?

“It’s probably the tea you ordered.” She says it so quietly I almost miss it. I knew everything about her—including that she’d want honey with her tea—but found myself desperate to know what I couldn’t see through a screen, couldn’t surveil. Did she want to be here? I step back, needing distance, but my hands betray me—they smooth her dress, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Don’t move.” The command comes out hoarse. I force myself to turn away, to handle the mundane details of room service when every cell in my body screams to possess her. To mark her. To gentle her.

Fuck.

The efficient movements of the hotel staff are a blur to me. I sign something, say something, but all I can focus on is Shiloh’s reflection in the window. She hasn’t moved an inch. The sight of her perfect obedience should feed the darker hunger that’s driven me since I first saw her. Instead, something dangerously close to tenderness claws at my chest.

The door clicks shut. I turn back to find her watching me, those whiskey-gold eyes seeing too much.

“The tea will get cold.” Her voice holds no challenge, no defiance. Just simple truth.

“I don’t give a damn about the tea.” But my feet carry me to the cart anyway. My hands pour a cup, adding a spoonful of honey like she prefers.

I press the cup into her hands, and for one unguarded moment, my fingers curl around hers. Comforting. Comforted. Maybe an emotion even more dangerous.

She drinks it slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. The curve of her throat as she swallows undoes me. When she finishes, I take the cup and set it aside with more care than the hotel china deserves.

Her fingers find my shirt buttons. Everything in me should reject this small rebellion, this attempt to take control. I stand frozen as she works each button free. The brush of her knuckles against my chest burns hotter than any mark I’ve left on her.

When she steps back toward the couch, I follow. My body moves without conscious thought, like she’s gained some gravitational pull over me. She turns, pressing me down to sit. The sight of her standing between my knees steals my breath.

Power shifts like mercury between us as she straddles my lap. My hands automatically find her hips, but I can’t tell if I’m controlling or steadying her. Her fingers trace the scar on my collarbone—a legacy from my father’s violence that no one else has ever paid attention to. The gentleness in that gesture terrifies me more than any defiance.

I capture her wrist, trying to reclaim control, but she’s already leaning in to press her lips to that same scar. My grip tightens convulsively. She’s demolishing every wall I’ve built, and I can’t seem to stop her.

Lightning flashes outside, painting her skin silver. She’s a force of nature in my lap, untamed despite every chain I’ve wrapped around her. My hands slide up her back, finding the zipper of her dress. I should tear it. Mark her. Remind us both who truly holds the power here.

Instead, my fingers tremble against the delicate silk. She arches as I ease the zipper down, each inch of exposed skin a victory I didn’t know I wanted. The dress pools at her waist, leaving her in black lace that makes my mouth go dry.

Her hands brace against my chest as she rolls her full hips against mine. The move draws a growl from my throat—too gentle, too careful, too much like making love instead of claiming. I grip her harder, trying to force the pace I want. She yields instantly, but the surrender in her eyes undoes me more than any resistance.

I drag her closer, nipping and nibbling along her throat. My mark blooms red against her skin, but she doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t try to hide the shudder that runs through her. The trust in that response rocks through me like thunder.

Her nails scrape down my chest, leaving trails of fire. I could stop her. Should stop her. I let her push my shirt off my shoulders, let her trace each scar and muscle like she’s mapping territory. When did I start giving her this much freedom? When did her touch start feeling like ownership?

Her hands reach my belt, and she opens it, then unbuttons my slacks to free my hard cock.

Lightning flashes again, catching the uncertainty that flickers across her face. Her movements grow hesitant, the confidence of moments ago faltering. Need wars with inexperience in her eyes.

My hands flex on her hips, hard enough to bruise. For once, the urge to control comes from somewhere deeper than dominance. “Let me show you.” The words scrape from my throat as I guide myself into her, groaning as her wet heat takes me.

She’s still so fucking tight. Carefully, I work myself deeper into her, guiding her hips in a slow rhythm, my fingers digging into tender flesh as I claim her. Her sharp inhale tells me she feels the pain—and likes it.

She trembles under my hands, trying to rush, to prove something. I tighten my grip punishingly. “Slower.” The word comes out rough as I guide her hips in a deeper roll, my other hand fisting in her hair. “Feel that?” Her gasp turns to a whimper as I show her exactly how I want her to move, using the grip on her hair to arch her back further. “Right there.”

Her head snaps back in my grip, throat exposed and vulnerable. My mark is already darkening her skin, but it’s not enough. I want to watch her learn how to break herself against me, again and again, until she craves the destruction as much as I do. Want to feel her discover how to take her pleasure—and mine—through the sweet edge of pain.

“That’s it.” My voice drops lower as she follows my lead, finding the punishing rhythm I’ve taught her. The flutter of her muscles around me tells me how close she is, but she’s fighting it—still trying to maintain some illusion of control.

I gather her closer, one hand spanning her lower back as I guide her into a deeper angle. My teeth find her shoulder, biting down. “Let go.” It comes out more plea than command. “I’ve got you.” The way she surrenders to pain and begs for more burns hotter than any victory I’ve ever claimed. When she finally shatters in my arms, gasping my name, it’s not submission to my will—it’s recognition of how perfectly our darkness twines together.

Her release triggers mine, but even as pleasure tears through me, my grip doesn’t gentle. I hold her through the aftershocks, keeping her exactly where I want her, letting her feel the bruises forming under my hands. Her whole body trembles, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t try to escape the bite of my fingers or the way I’m marking her inside and out.

Something dark and satisfied unfurls in my chest when she collapses against me, completely spent. I’ve driven her past her limits, past her control, past her pretense of independence—and she’s let me. The knowledge burns like whiskey in my blood.

We stay tangled together as our breathing slows, my hands still possessive on her skin. I should push her away. Should reassert the distance between owner and possession. Instead, I find myself cataloging every mark I’ve left on her, every bruise blooming under my fingers. My thumb traces each one like a signature.

When she finally stirs, I expect her to pull away. To rebuild her walls. But she only settles deeper against my chest, her breath evening out into sleep. The trust in that simple action undoes me more than any submission.

I try to ignore how right she feels curled against my chest. How her pleasure—and my unwillingness to pull out of her, to separate our bodies—has somehow given her power over me.

Tomorrow, I’ll remember what this is supposed to be—a contract.

But tonight, just for tonight, I let myself forget.