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8

Jackson

She trembles against the wall, proud spine finally bowed, skin marked red from my crop. The sight feeds something primitive in my blood. My hellcat, my defiant little toy, pushed to the edge of surrender.

But not quite broken. Never quite broken.

“Tell me again.” I trace the marks I left, feeling her shiver. “Why did you need to change my training program?”

Her breath catches as I pull my fingers out of her, her pussy clenching around me as I do, as if she doesn’t want to let me go. “The Friesian—” She stops, swallowing hard. “The Friesian shows clear signs of early handling trauma. You’re triggering his fear response.”

Even now, her voice stays professional. Technical. Like she’s not naked and wanting, like I haven’t spent the last several minutes teaching her the price of defiance.

I press my thumb against her asshole, then shove three fingers deep into her pussy, making her gasp. “And your solution?”

“Smaller meals. Less pressure.” Her hips rock against my hand, seeking friction I won’t give her. “Building trust.”

“You’re undermining my authority,” I growl, and thrust my fingers into her again.

She whimpers but doesn’t give up. “Fuck you, Jackson. There’s a difference between earning respect and demanding submission. Horses lash out because they’ve never known trust.”

The words hit like a knife to the gut.

We both know she’s not just talking about horses.

I curl my fingers then pull out, pressing one soaked finger into her forbidden entrance. She tenses, then whines as I work it in, fucking both of her holes at once, her hips tilting to meet my hand.

“Please.” The word falls from her lips like surrender.

I pin her against the wall. Her eyes are wild, pupils blown with need, but that steel core remains unbroken.

“You want to come?” I work her higher, watching her fight her need, her innate desire to soften against me, to submit to my domination.

“You know I’m right,” she says, refusing to give up, even as she rides my hand, throwing her head back as I fuck her roughly with my fingers. “You have to let me work with your staff—they’ve known me for years. Miguel sees me as a daughter.” No hesitation. No submission in the words, just pure professional confidence despite the way she’s soaking me. “Damn you, Jackson,” she cries. “You know I’m right!”

I remove my fingers from her pussy, leaving her leaning against the wall, panting, her eyes glassy with lust and fury. In a moment, I’ve freed my cock. This wasn’t how I meant to take her for the first time, but fuck if I’m going to deny myself a second longer, not when she’s here, naked, needy, absolutely fucking drenched.

She doesn’t move, just watches me. I hitch one of her legs over my arm, then thrust into her hard, swallowing her cry with my mouth. She’s magnificently wet, magnificently tight, her pussy clenching around me as I impale her.

“Jackson,” she gasps. Her eyes are wide open. I give her a moment to adjust, fighting every instinct to move, to claim her, to fuck her until we both forget anything but this conflagration burning between us.

Slowly, she relaxes, and when she runs her hands up my sides, then wraps her arms around my shoulders, I bury my face in her neck and inhale her sweet scent, before snapping my hips back and setting a punishing pace. Every stroke is possession, every touch a brand of ownership.

God, I’ve waited for this for so long—not just the weeks of her captivity, but years of stalking her, watching her, tightening the trap.

“Mine,” I growl against her throat, where yesterday’s marks are darkening. “My ranch. My rules.”

“Your ranch.” She arches, taking me deeper, ever defiant, her fingers claw against my skin, leaving marks on my neck. “But I know what the fuck I’m doing with your horses. You have to fucking trust me, Jackson.”

I thrust again, shoving her up against the wall, and she cries out, her grip tightening.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Oh my god, yes.” I fuck her hard until she cries out my name, clenching and fluttering around me as she climaxes. It’s too much—no, it’s not enough. I want to throw her to the ground and take her for hours, prove to both of us who’s really in charge. Instead, I come inside her, murmuring her name against the delicate skin of her throat, painting her insides with my come.

Fuck. No condom.

Reluctantly, I pull out of her, both of us breathing hard. I suspect she’s as stunned by the explosive force of our coupling as I am.

“Goddamn you,” I swear at her, running a hand up her back, her skin hot beneath mine. “I didn’t mean?—”

I don’t owe her an explanation for anything, especially not an explanation that included the fact that I’d meant to take her in a bed, had been heightening the tension for the last few days so the payoff would be worth it for both of us.

Goddamn her for making me wish I were a better man.

Shiloh says nothing. She dresses with efficient movements, tucking that professional mask back into place. Only the marks on her neck and the slight tremor in her hands betray what happened here.

“I’m negative,” she murmurs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve—” She stops abruptly. “And I’ve got an IUD. The Friesian needs attention.” Her voice is perfectly steady as she reties her bandana. “Unless you plan to sabotage your own investment?”

She doesn’t ask me if I’m clean, doesn’t say anything else. She’s gone before I can respond, the door closing with quiet finality. Through the window, I watch her walk to the stalls. Back straight. Head high. Every inch a professional.

I walk outside of the office to find Miguel explaining Shiloh’s methods to the ranch hands. The Friesian’s ears are forward, head lowered—textbook signs of trust-building.

“Implement all of her recommendations.” I don’t look at Miguel as I give the order. “Effective immediately.”

I dismiss him with a gesture, attention fixed on the app on my phone I use to monitor her. She’s in the round pen now, that fluid grace on display as she works with a difficult mare. Every movement precise. Professional. Perfect.

My phone buzzes—another report on her father’s debts. Three more creditors crawling out of the woodwork, each one a new chain to bind her to me.

On screen, the mare follows her like a dream, responding to cues so subtle they’re almost invisible. My hellcat. My obsession. My most valuable possession, whether she admits it or not.

I touch the screen where her image moves, the gesture almost gentle. Almost reverent.

I’ll own every piece of her. Her body. Her submission. Her expertise. Everything she is or will be.

And I’ll be damned if I let her forget who she belongs to.