Page 14 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

MACY

W ith the ops room in motion, screens humming and the rest of Silver Spur buzzing around them, Macy stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Trace like a hawk.

He moved with brutal precision, barking orders, recalibrating threat grids, and coordinating with Reed and Jesse like this was a battlefield and not a heavily secured tech compound. Which, to be fair, it kind of was.

She'd never seen him this locked in, this commanding—every muscle taut with purpose, every word clipped and lethal. Watching him take charge sent a surge through her, like the spark before lightning strikes. Her pulse kicked, heat coiling low. Damn it, she was turned on.

"You gonna keep eye-fucking me, or jump in and help?" he asked without turning around.

"Depends," she said, biting back a smile. "Is the eye-fucking mutual?"

That earned her the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of something unguarded that sent a thrill down her spine. It was a small thing—barely there—but she caught it, savored it like a private win in the middle of a war zone.

"We go after nightfall," Trace said. "Nexus Technologies has a secondary satellite node that Hawke's team flagged. Small security detail, easy in, easy out. We hit it tonight."

She arched a brow. "And by 'we' you mean...?"

"You, me, Hawke, and Reed."

Macy blinked. "Seriously? You’re really letting me come?"

He turned to face her, stepping close enough she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. "I don't know that I have much choice. You know Nexus and its systems better than anyone. You put yourself in this, remember? I can't see leaving you to sit with a target on your back."

The way he said it made her insides twist, like a taut wire pulled tight and ready to snap.

Not from fear, but from something deeper, something molten and alive, coiling at the base of her spine like a storm about to break.

It ignited a slow burn in her lower belly, a heated tension that pulsed outward, tightening every nerve ending with anticipation that dared her to step closer, to ask for more.

"So where are we going to wait until then? Here at the concrete bunker of doom?"

"Iron Spur," Trace said. "It’s closer, better shielded, and has better accommodations."

"Not to mention St. Andrew's crosses, beds with built-in restraint systems and the best showers this side of the Conservatorium Hotel in Amsterdam."

Trace stared at her. "You've been to Amsterdam?"

"Hasn't everybody?"

Reed leaned in as he passed by. "We also have better couches, great food and a fully stocked bar with top-shelf liquor."

"Sold," Macy said. "Do I get to nap before risking my life again?"

"No," Trace said. "You get to be briefed."

"Is that code for something wild and kinky?"

"Macy," Trace growled.

"What? I was just asking. But you boys know how to romance a girl."

He said nothing. But his gaze skimmed down her body with a slow, deliberate intensity that made her pulse stutter.

Heat flared beneath her skin, and she felt it pool low in her belly.

Her breath hitched, but she held his gaze, matching it with a boldness she didn’t entirely feel.

What was it about this man that could make her both wet and witty at the same time?

The Iron Spur seemed to always look the same, as if nothing could ever change it.

From the outside, it still passed for a warehouse on the outskirts of San Antonio, tucked behind brush and bleached by the relentless Texas sun.

But she knew better. She’d walked through these doors many times before—years ago, before everything went sideways. Before her banishment.

Once they passed the retinal entry scanner and the doors opened, the familiar transformation greeted her like muscle memory.

Stone met steel. Warm wood gave way to reinforced walls.

The sunken central room opened up beneath her, revealing the familiar curve of the Iron Spur’s main floor—a plush, high-end dungeon space with ambient lighting and soundproof alcoves designed for privacy and control.

Play stations lined the outer ring, each one equipped with specialized rigs, while the central command hub above the lounge gleamed with discreet surveillance feeds, secured terminals, and biometric access panels. It was still the most seductive place she'd ever known, and the most dangerous.

Trace led her inside and up to the second floor where the secure safe rooms and private play rooms were located. He keyed them in, then nodded toward a hallway. "Room at the end. It has an attached bath with a great shower and the towels are in the wall cabinet. I’ll grab clothes from storage."

Macy took a step toward the hallway, then turned back with a raised brow. "Still have cameras in the bedrooms here? Or did the dungeon go soft while I was gone?"

Trace’s mouth quirked. "Not unless I flip the switch."

"Good. Wouldn't want an audience while I wash off the reminder of exactly how thoroughly you ruined me."

His jaw flexed, heat flashing in his eyes. She grinned, victorious, and sauntered down the hall with a sway in her hips.

"I wouldn't waste too much time with that. I'm not through with you yet."

When she emerged twenty minutes later, damp hair curling around her shoulders and dressed in leggings and a faded Silver Spur t-shirt knotted at the waist, Trace was waiting in the main room. Jeans. Black tee. Gun holstered. And a look that made her thighs press together without conscious thought.

"Feel better?"

"Cleaner," she said, sauntering toward him. "But now I’m bored."

"That sounds like a threat."

"Or a challenge. Depends on how brave you’re feeling."

He stepped closer. "Is that right?"

"Mmhmm. Maybe I want to test what happens when the cowboy finally snaps."

Trace’s gaze darkened. "Careful, Macy. You may not like the consequences."

A throb of a heated ache bloomed deep in her core.

The look in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t bluffing.

If she was honest, a part of her didn’t want him to.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled against her thighs, nails biting into skin she couldn’t seem to keep still.

Every nerve felt stretched taut, like her body had already leapt ahead of her mind.

She licked her lips. "Define 'may not like,' cowboy. Because I’m feeling pretty damn curious."She tilted her head. "See, that’s the thing. I think I will."

He moved fast. One hand curled around her wrist, the other pressed flat against the small of her back as he walked her backward toward the wall.

"You want me to snap? To stop holding back and show you what it means to belong to me?"

She grinned, heart pounding in her chest. The heat in his voice licked across her skin, making her pulse race. "You keep talking like that, McRae, and I might enjoy this more than I should."

His grip tightened. "Strip."

Her breath caught.

"Now, Macy."

She obeyed, her breath catching at the quiet authority in his voice. A spark lit behind her ribs—equal parts fear, want, and something far more reckless. The air thickened around her as she moved,

Slowly, she pulled the knot free at her waist and lifted the shirt over her head. The cool air in the room prickled across her skin. Her nipples tightened. Trace’s gaze devoured her.

She shimmied out of the leggings and let them drop.

He stepped into her space, close enough that the heat of his body wrapped around her like a living flame.

With a firm grip, he raised her arms above her head and pinned her wrists to the wall, his body pressing hers into the unyielding surface.

One hand held her captive, the other slid down the curve of her throat, lingering just long enough to feel the rapid pulse fluttering beneath her skin before trailing lower—slow, deliberate, and possessive.

"You really want to test me, darlin'?"

She trembled, her breath shallow, spine bowing slightly under the weight of sensation gathering deep in her core. Not fear, never fear, but the sharp, delicious edge of anticipation. Arousal curled low and insistent, thrumming through every nerve ending like a promise waiting to be claimed.

"I want you to stop pretending we’re not both halfway to combusting," she teased, voice low and taunting, the edge of a grin curling her lips. Inside, Macy’s pulse thundered.

Shefelt like a current of electricity was dancing beneath her skin, every inch of that skin humming with dangerous possibility.

If Trace didn’t touch her soon, she might spontaneously combust for real.

His mouth crashed down on hers, fierce and possessive.

His tongue swept into her mouth, staking a claim with every stroke.

She met him with equal heat, their kiss an electric clash of hunger and defiance.

He pressed her against the wall, the unrelenting hardness of his arousal grinding through denim, making her gasp into his mouth as her nails dug into his shoulders, needing something to anchor her to the moment before she flew apart.

When he finally pulled back, Macy sucked in a breath like she'd surfaced from deep underwater, chest rising sharply as the shock of separation hit her harder than expected.

Her lips tingled, swollen from his kiss, and her thighs clenched involuntarily at the lingering heat he left behind.

The wall was still at her back, but everything else felt like it had shifted.

"You do not provoke me without consequences."

"Then punish me," she taunted, not sure if she wanted him to or not.

He flipped her around so fast her head spun. Her hands hit the wall. His palm cracked across her ass, sharp and unapologetic. She moaned.

"Count," he growled.

"One," she whispered, voice shaking.

The second slap landed, heat blooming across her skin.

"Two."