Page 36 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

Shiloh's hand flattens against my back, covering part of the tattoo.

"You weren't his."

"I was though. That was the fucked up part. The tattoo I got to prove I still owned myself just made me more valuable property to him. He even had professional photos taken of it, added them to my 'portfolio' for special clients who liked their omegas with an edge."

"What happened to the artist?"

I close my eyes. "Dead. Three days after he did mine. They found him in his shop, overdosed on something he'd never touched in his life. The message was clear—I could mark myself because I was special, valuable. But anyone who helped another omega do the same would pay."

"Jesus."

"A month later, another omega tried to get a small butterfly on her shoulder.

Marnay had her held down while he removed it strip by strip with that cheese grater.

Made us all watch. Then sold her to some Saudi princes for their 'collection.

' She lasted two weeks before they got bored with damaged goods. "

The room is quiet except for our breathing. His hand is warm against my back, covering the queen like he's protecting her—protecting me—retroactively from harm that's already happened.

"It's beautiful," he finally says. "Tragic and beautiful and fucking brave."

"Or stupid. Could have gotten me killed." It really was a thrilling move that could have cost me my life, but that’s what they call risks.

"Most brave things could get you killed. That's what makes them brave instead of just easy."

He thinks the way I think.

His lips press to the inked petals, soft and reverent, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying.

When was the last time someone touched me with tenderness instead of hunger?

Who wished to learn about the rooted meanings of the ink upon my flesh that I got out of vengeance and desperation?

It was such a long shot asking him to be the one to take my first, but instead of rushing it like I’m sure any Alpha would, he’s genuinely treasuring each moment.

As if to truly make it memorable for both of us.

"My turn," I say, needing to shift the focus before I fall apart completely.

I roll back over, drinking in the sight of him.

Where do I even start? He's a masterpiece of contradictions—scars and ink telling stories of violence and beauty in equal measure.

The bullet wound on his shoulder, puckered and angry, even healed.

The surgical scar is low on his abdomen, precise and thin.

Claw marks across his ribs that speak of enemies with more than bullets.

"You're like a map," I whisper, reaching up to trace the compass rose over his heart. "Every mark is a place you've been, a battle you've survived." My fingers find the dates inked on his ribs. "People you've lost?"

He nods, jaw tight.

"They're still with you," I say softly. "Carried on your skin, close to your heart. That's beautiful, not flawed."

I feel like I’m talking to myself more than him, hoping my words do encourage him in someway while reassuring myself those same words with my own insecurities.

My hands continue their exploration, learning the geography of him. The dog on his bicep—Duke, I realize now, rendered in photographic detail.

"You love that dog more than most people, don't you?"

"Duke doesn't judge," he says simply. "Duke doesn't expect me to be anything but what I am."

"Smart dog." I trace the V of his hips, watch his abs contract at the touch. "I can't wait to learn more about you. All these stories written on your skin. And maybe..." I grin up at him. "How to chop a log without looking like I'm trying to murder the tree."

That surprises a laugh from him, breaking the tension.

"I'll teach you. Though you'll need better boots."

"Hey, your boots are very comfortable," I protest. "Like wearing boats on my feet."

He grins and leans down, capturing my lips in a kiss that's slow and deep and thorough. This is him trying to do slow, I realize, and it's devastating. His tongue traces mine like he's memorizing the taste, his teeth catch my bottom lip just hard enough to make me gasp.

Then his hand is between my legs again, and slow goes out the window.

"Fuck," I breathe against his mouth as his fingers find my folds, already slick and swollen. The sound they make as he explores is obscene in the quiet room, wet and needy.

"So responsive," he murmurs, watching my face as he slides one finger inside. The stretch is foreign but not unwelcome, my body clenching around the intrusion. "Christ, you're tight."

"Not exactly had anything up there before," I manage, trying to breathe through the sensation. It’s a bit scary now. To finally do the deed that seems to be some prized possession to anyone who hears it. To finally taint this flower with a man who knows me for more than my stage name or a night fling. A man who smells so fucking good, who’s doing things at a pace that doesn’t make me want to run for the hills.

"Relax," he says, his free hand stroking my hip soothingly. "I want you nice and wet, so this feels good."

He works me with patient skill, that one finger moving in ways that make my back arch off the bed. When I've adjusted, he adds a second, the stretch burning just enough to ride the edge between pleasure and pain. His thumb finds my clit, circling with just enough pressure to make me see stars.

"That's it," he praises as I moan, no longer caring about dignity or control. "Love hearing you. Love watching you fall apart for me."

His fingers move faster, deeper, hitting spots I didn't know existed. I'm climbing, spiraling higher with each stroke, each press of his thumb. My hands clutch his shoulders, nails digging in as the pressure builds.

"You're going to come for me," he says, and it's not a question. "Going to take every inch of me after, ride through your first blissful high, gripping my shoulders and screaming my name."

"Shiloh," I whimper, because he's right. I'm so close, teetering on an edge I've never approached before. "Please, I need?—"

"I know, Little Cherry. Know exactly what you need from me, and you’ll get it."

His fingers curl inside me, hitting something that makes my vision white out.

I come with a cry that's probably too loud, my body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me.

It goes on forever, each pulse dragging another sound from my throat, until I'm boneless and gasping beneath him.

I've never come undone in anyone's hands before.

Never knew my body could feel like this—electric and liquid all at once.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, and I watch through heavy lids as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a groan that resonates in my bones.

"Fuck," I breathe, because what else can you say when a man tastes you like you're fine wine?

"You're ready for me," he says, voice rough with want.

I nod, probably too eagerly, trying not to literally salivate at the sight of him stroking himself.

He's proportional everywhere, and the thought of taking him—of being stretched and filled and claimed— has my inner walls clenching with anticipation.

This is really happening. The reality of it makes my heart thunder against my ribs.

He notices my fixation and the corner of his mouth quirks up, that rare smile that transforms his whole face. "Like what you see, little cherry?"

"Maybe," I manage to say, though my voice comes out breathier than intended. "Though I'm starting to wonder if you're compensating for something with all those weapons you carry."

He actually laughs at that, the sound rumbling through the water between us. "Trust me, I don't need to compensate for anything."

The arrogance should annoy me, but instead it sends another pulse of heat straight to my core. Three years of keeping men at arm's length, and now I'm naked and drenched with an alpha who bought me for a hundred million dollars, practically begging him to take my virginity.

Mom would either be proud or horrified. Probably both.

"Still sure about this?" His voice has gone serious again, those forest-green eyes searching mine for any hint of doubt.

I take a moment to really think about it. Not the automatic response born from arousal and proximity, but the real answer.

Am I ready for this? To give something I've protected so fiercely to a man I've known for days?

But then I think about those days. How he caught me when I fell. How he worried about my circulation. How he let me “stea” his dog and play in the rain and choose my own nail polish color even though he can't tell them apart.

How he's asking, again and again, making sure this is what I want.

"I'm sure," I tell him, and I mean it. "I want this. I want you."

Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability that makes him look younger despite the scars. "I want you too," he admits, voice rough. "More than I should. More than is probably safe for either of us."

"Since when do we do safe?" I ask, thinking of storage closets and poisoned champagne and hundred-million-dollar gambles.

"Good point." He shifts closer, the water sloshing gently. "But Red..."

I tense, wondering if this is where he tells me about some alpha quirk I should be worried about.

"What?"

"I don't do gentle well," he says, and there's warning in it. "I can try, I will try, but I'm not... I'm not a romance novel hero. I'm not going to quote poetry or scatter rose petals. I'm probably going to fuck it up somehow."

The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. "Shiloh," I say, reaching up to touch his face, feeling the stubble rough against my palm. "I'm not asking for a romance novel. I'm asking for you. Just you, exactly as you are."

He turns his head, pressing a kiss to my palm that's so tender it makes my eyes sting.

"You might regret that."

"I might," I agree. "But I'd rather regret doing something than regret never trying."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly.