Page 15 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

Each one burned. Each one lit a fuse inside her she'd never known existed.

She'd also never submitted to discipline during her time at the Iron Spur and now wondered what she'd missed.

By the time he reached ten, she was dripping.

Needy. Desperate. Her body vibrated with aching tension, and she could feel her own arousal slicking her thighs.

He stepped back, admiring the flush on her cheeks. His gaze was dark, hungry as he opened his fly.

"On your knees. Mouth on me. Now." Trace's voice was low, commanding, thick with restraint about to snap.

Macy dropped to her knees with practiced grace, her palms gliding up the powerful lines of his body as she looked up through her lashes and freed his cock.

The hunger in his eyes punched the breath from her lungs.

Her core pulsed, tight with need, as she leaned in.

Her lips parted slowly, reverently, around the swollen, rigid heat of him, the weight of his arousal claiming the space between them.

The salty tang on her tongue, the throb beneath her grip, the harsh sound of his breath above her—each one lit her up from the inside.

Her tongue swept the sensitive underside of his shaft, drawing a raw groan from his throat that vibrated through her bones.

She dragged her lips slowly down his length, every motion calculated to torment.

Hollowing her cheeks, she took him deeper, her throat stretching to accommodate the weight of him.

Her hands locked onto his hips, fingers digging into hard muscle as he began to move in time with her, shallow thrusts that matched the rhythm she commanded with her mouth.

Every inch of him pulsed with heat and need, each pass testing the edges of her control.

Trace growled low in his throat, threading his fingers through her hair with a grip that claimed rather than guided.

The pressure of his hand anchored her, a silent demand wrapped in restraint.

Every line of his body vibrated with control on the edge of collapse—thighs flexing, breath hitching, jaw tight against a guttural curse.

She felt the ripple of muscle beneath her palms and the brutal shiver he couldn’t quite suppress when her tongue traced a slow, deliberate circle around the crown, teasing him with practiced precision and reckless intent.

He pulsed against her tongue, his restraint fraying. "Stop. Now."

She obeyed instantly, pulling back with swollen lips and heavy breath, her chin glistening with arousal and pride.

Trace stared down at her, chest heaving, jaw locked tight. "You have no idea what you just started. Get on your back on the bed. Now."

She moved without hesitation, the command in his voice bypassing thought and sparking a visceral reaction.

Her pulse pounded as she stepped away from the wall, body still thrumming with the aftermath of his touch, nerves lit like live wires.

Each movement carried the weight of what had just happened, and the promise of what was still to come.

He stripped as she climbed onto the mattress, her gaze devouring every inch he exposed.

His shirt came off first, revealing the chest carved from discipline and scarred by battles she could only guess at—a living map of pain and survival.

Each mark made her want to trace it with her tongue, to ask the story behind it, to claim every one as hers.

Then came the jeans, sliding down lean hips and powerful legs.

She watched, transfixed, as they dropped to the floor, baring the full truth of him.

Her breath caught hard in her throat, her thighs pressed together in reflex.

God help her, he was magnificent. Thick, heavy, already hard for her.

Not just perfect, but fierce, devastating, a weapon forged in combat and now wielded solely for her.

A shiver rolled through her, desire licking along her spine. Her nipples peaked, the air around them suddenly too sharp, too cold. Every nerve felt exposed.

She licked her lips, desire sparking hot and molten at the back of her tongue, her gaze raking over him like a match to gasoline. A pulse beat in her core, heavy and insistent, a raw hunger that had nothing to do with food.

Tonight wasn’t just about sex. It was war. And she was already surrendering.

He knelt between her thighs, his hands curling around her waist and sliding down inch by inch with maddening slowness.

His lips followed the path, brushing a trail of heat from the sharp curve of her hip to the sensitive hollow where thigh met pelvis.

He paused there, nuzzling gently before pressing a firm, open-mouthed kiss to the spot that made her gasp.

Her breath caught, body arching slightly toward his mouth, the anticipation so sharp it bordered on pain.

Then his mouth descended with deliberate hunger, replacing the heat of his hands with something far more devastating.

His tongue parted her folds with a slow, reverent sweep that sent a bolt of white-hot sensation up her spine.

He licked her with a purpose that bordered on worship, alternating between gentle flicks and deep, possessive strokes that had her writhing, gasping his name into the sheets.

The sound of his mouth working her, wet and obscene, filled the room, mingling with the raw, desperate cries she couldn't hold back. Her thighs clamped around his head as the pressure built fast, brutal, unstoppable. She exploded against him, a helpless shudder tearing through her as she convulsed, her vision going white. But he didn’t stop.

He kept going, relentless, merciless, drinking down every twitch and sob like a man starved.

And when her body shattered a second time—harder, hotter, deeper—she screamed his name, not as a question but as a claim.

She shattered on his tongue. She sobbed his name, back bowed, hips rising. Trace didn’t stop. He licked her through the aftershocks until she twisted the sheets beneath her fists, her thighs trembling.

As the tremors of release subsided and her breath slowed, Macy became aware of the solid weight of Trace's body hovering over hers.

His eyes were dark with unspent hunger, stormy and intense, locking on hers with a possessive heat that stole what was left of her breath.

The blunt, thick head of his cock nudged against her slick entrance, a promise drawn taut with anticipation.

She felt the tension in his body, the controlled restraint in his posture, and the raw, unspoken need that radiated off him in waves.

Her thighs fell open in silent invitation, body already reaching for him, aching to be filled.

He held still for a heartbeat longer, as if giving her the chance to change her mind—or to brace for the impact of what came next.

"Ready?"

"Trace... please."

He pushed into her with a single, deep stroke that stole her breath. Her cry rang out, sharp and shuddering, the sound bouncing off the walls like a detonated charge, raw and full of surrender.

He moved with deliberate, devastating precision, each measured stroke a claim that drove her higher with every breathless second.

His hands gripped her hips, firm and unwavering, commanding the rhythm with a possessive certainty that left no room for doubt.

The tension between them snapped and crackled, every shift of his body a primal invocation of dominance and desire that left her breathless and trembling.

"You're mine, Macy. Say it," he growled, voice rough with the weight of possession.

A shiver ran down Macy’s spine, her breath catching in her throat.

The words hit her like a bolt of electricity, charging every inch of her skin with need, claiming more than just her body.

Her chest rose and fell in time with the pounding of her heart, a mix of lust and awe threading through her ribs.

She met his gaze, wide-eyed but unflinching, and the sensation of being his, truly his, sank deeper than she'd expected. No quip, no banter. Just truth.

She clawed at his back. "Yours. God, yes."

"Again."

"Yours. Only yours."

He drove into her with relentless force, every thrust a raw claim that reverberated through her body. Her climax tore through her like a lightning strike, spine arching as she cried out, muscles seizing in a tidal wave of sensation. Her vision swam, body trembling, completely undone beneath him.

When he followed, it was with a groan of her name and a shudder that rocked them both.

He collapsed on top of her, chest heaving. For a moment he remained where he was before rolling to his back and pulling her close.

Macy stared at the ceiling, her body still tingling, her thoughts chasing the aftermath like leaves caught in a restless breeze.

A slow pulse throbbed between her thighs, a heady reminder of everything they’d just shared, and everything that now waited outside this fragile cocoon of heat and breathless vulnerability.

"Well," she said finally. "That was adequate."

Trace laughed, low and wrecked. "Smartass."

She turned her head and met his gaze. No teasing now.

"You didn’t have to take this assignment. You sure as hell didn’t have to believe me. But you did. Why?"

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Because when someone tries to destroy something that matters to me, I don’t walk away. I go to war."

She swallowed hard, the intensity of his words reverberating in her chest. They landed with a gravity that went beyond heat or sex, anchoring themselves somewhere vulnerable. Somewhere real.

Before she could answer, his comm pinged.He checked it and froze.

"What is it?"

"We’ve got movement at Nexus. Hawke says we’re not the only ones heading there tonight."

He looked at her, expression grim. His jaw clenched, breath slowing.

"They’re sending a kill team."

Macy’s breath stuttered, her fingers curling into the sheets as adrenaline surged.

The room seemed to shrink around her, awareness sharpening to a blade-edge focus.

She pushed upright, heart pounding, pulse drumming in her ears.

Her gaze locked on Trace, searching for confirmation, denial, anything that would anchor her against the rising tide of dread.

But his face had gone hard—shuttered. That alone told her enough.

"Then I guess the war starts now," she murmured, her voice tight and steady, even as her stomach clenched with fear.

Trace’s eyes met hers. Dark. Focused. "Gear up, Macy. We’re going in hot. You stay where I tell you and do as you're told."