Page 10 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

DAWSON

S he closed the bedroom door with deliberate care, the muted snick of the latch sounding sharper than expected in the quiet loft, a soft sound that still hit Dawson square in the chest. It wasn’t defiant.

It wasn’t cold. It was... final. Like she needed space.

Like she’d reached the edge of what she could take for one night.

He watched the door a beat longer than he should’ve, jaw tight, then turned back to his laptop. He had work to do.

The screen glared back at him, lines of data flickering past like a stream he couldn’t wade into—relevant, maybe even urgent, but slipping away too fast to catch.

breach logs, traces of the leak still slipping through firewalls like smoke through a sieve.

But his head wasn’t in it. Not with the scent of her still hanging in the air—vanilla and something warm, maybe citrus.

Not with the memory of her mouth slightly parted when he wiped that damn sauce from her lip.

And definitely not with the image of her pressed against the wall, his body pinning hers, still vivid in his mind like a scene burned into celluloid.

Discipline, Hart. He ran a hand over his face. Get your goddamn head back in the game.

He reached for the Kindle she’d left on the couch, intending to move it to the coffee table—a converted antique industrial cart once used in the sugar factory.

But the moment his fingers brushed the device, the device lit up from its screen saver mode and a flicker of hesitation rippled through him.

It felt like crossing a line—small, maybe, but personal.

Still, curiosity edged past caution. What had she been reading so intently?

He looked down as the device revealed the last page she’d read. His hand stilled.

A scene flickered on the screen—leather cuffs, a kneeling heroine, a Dom coaxing trust from her with nothing but voice and rope. Dawson skimmed the words, and something primal surged through his spine and gathered beneath his skin, a visceral heat that gripped his chest and refused to let go.

She’d been reading a novel by Vanessa Ellington, a member of the club, while nestled across from him on his couch, eyes wide and innocent as she stole glances at him over the top edge—stealing fantasies while curled in the oversized chenille throw, surrounded by the scent and textures of his space—leather, cedar, heat—everything undeniably him.

The juxtaposition was a sucker punch to his control.

Christ.

He set the Kindle down slowly, carefully, like it might detonate.

The pieces were clicking into place. Evangeline Shaw—polished, sharp-tongued, always in control—had been devouring a story about submission.

About letting go. And judging by the electric tension that crackled like static in a storm between them, by the way her breath had caught and her pupils had dilated when his thumb grazed her mouth, by the hitched inhale she gave when he’d pinned her to the wall. ..

She wanted it.

Not in the way she might’ve admitted out loud.

Not even in the way she might have consciously understood.

But something about the way her body had arched into his touch, the way she’d flushed beneath his gaze, told him what her mouth never had.

That she craved something deeper than control—an escape from the weight of responsibility, a surrender laced with trust and raw, aching need.

Maybe she needed submission the way he needed dominance—something rooted deep, primal, a mirror reflection of the hunger clawing through him.

He could almost see it: her on her knees, not because she was weak—but because she finally trusted someone to catch her when she let go. And damn if that thought didn’t make his chest tighten and his cock throb all over again.

Maybe she didn’t know it yet. Maybe no one had ever earned enough of her trust to draw it out of her.

But he knew the signs. He’d trained with Reed for years, taught subs to recognize their limits, their needs.

And now? Now, he couldn’t stop picturing her kneeling—not in weakness, but in power.

The kind that came from choosing surrender.

He tried to focus on the breach, but the image wouldn’t let go.

Later, when he finally crashed on the couch, bourbon still ghosting his tongue, sleep came like a stormfront—hard and fast.

The dream hit like a gut punch—sudden, hot, and disorienting. One moment, Dawson was sinking into the worn leather of the couch, bourbon fogging his thoughts, the scent of her lingering in the air. The next, his mind was flooded with heat and motion and the sharp, seductive pull of need.

Evangeline. Naked. Kneeling.

Her back bore the faint, beautiful marks of his flogger—rosy, rising lines across her skin that bloomed with the precision of a lover’s promise, each one placed with reverent skill.

Her mouth stretched wide over his cock, lips glossy and slick, cheeks flushed from the heady mix of arousal and anticipation.

Her gaze never wavered, fixed on his with a blend of heat and hunger—worship twined with defiance, as if daring him to push her further while offering herself completely.

She moved slow—deliberate—like a symphony composed just for him, her body thrumming with the rhythm of chosen surrender.

Every brush of her lips, every shallow gasp, every wet flick of her tongue painted devotion in heat and velvet.

She wasn’t just submitting—she was offering herself with raw, pulsing trust, her moans an intimate promise. Utter surrender. Irrevocably his.

He fisted her hair, tugging gently as he guided her deeper, each inch a deliberate surrender to pleasure.

His control frayed at the edges, slipping just enough to feel the volatile heat of abandon.

Her moan—low, husky—vibrated through him, sending a jolt up his spine and down to his toes.

It was electric and consuming, a siren's call that twisted his insides and buckled his knees with savage, primal need.

He woke hard and breathless, arousal surging through his system like wildfire, thick and aching, demanding release with relentless urgency.

"Fuck," he muttered.

He rubbed a hand over his face, dragged himself upright, and didn’t look toward the closed door of her bedroom.

The next morning, Dawson didn’t say much, and Evangeline didn’t push. They slipped around each other in a quiet rhythm, like dancers out of step but still bound by the same song. Coffee brewed. Doors opened and shut.

And through it all, a low burn of awareness lingered—unspoken, charged, flickering like embers beneath the surface. Every glance held weight. Every accidental brush of fingers sparked. The silence wasn’t empty—it was full of everything they hadn’t dared say the night before.

He drove her to the office, escorted her to the executive floor, then handed off surveillance duty to Lachlan—a seasoned Silver Spur operative he trusted implicitly.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” he ordered.

Lachlan raised a brow. “You expecting trouble?”

“I always expect trouble.”

From there, he headed to Silver Spur HQ. He needed answers. And space. And maybe a punching bag—or five.

The suspect tied to the data breach was a mid-level IT contractor named Morris Gates. Dawson found him in the interrogation room—sweaty, twitchy, too confident for someone caught mid-swipe with admin-level credentials and two encrypted flash drives.

“I didn’t do anything illegal,” Gates insisted. “Just... moved some files. It’s not like I sold them.”

“Yet,” Dawson growled, stepping closer. “Who paid you?”

“No one.”

Dawson slammed a hand against the metal table with a sharp, metallic crack that echoed like a gunshot.

His stare was unyielding, glacial. Gates flinched and shrank back, the bravado draining from his face as Dawson leaned in, his voice low and lethal.

"You think this is a game? Keep lying, and I’ll show you how it ends. "

Gavin’s voice cut through the room from the hallway. “Out. Now.”

Dawson straightened, breathing hard.

Gavin waited until they were in the hallway. “You need to pull your shit together.”

“He’s lying.”

“Yeah. But you’re losing control. That’s not like you.”

Dawson didn’t answer.

Gavin folded his arms. “This about her?”

“She’s the client.”

“She’s got you rattled.”

“She’s a job.”

Gavin didn’t flinch. “Then why the hell do you look like someone sucker punched you every time her name comes up?”

Dawson said nothing.

Gavin sighed. “You need clarity, Dawson. Either stay the course, or admit you’re compromised. But you can’t keep straddling the line and expect to come out clean.”

Dawson stalked out of the interrogation suite without another word, tension burning through his shoulders.

He didn’t wait for the elevator—he took the stairs two at a time, boots echoing against the concrete like the steady beat of a war drum.

The air in the stairwell was cooler, but it didn’t ease the heat simmering in his veins.

When he reached the gym, the weight of the building felt different—grittier, raw. The sound of fists hitting pads and grunts of exertion greeted him like an old song. Inside, Jesse was mid-spar with one of the new recruits, sweat gleaming on his forearms, his movements sharp and controlled.

Perfect. Just what Dawson needed.

“Need to hit something?” Jesse asked after he finished.

“Badly.”

They geared up. The sparring started slow, measured. Then Jesse threw a punch Dawson didn’t expect.

Dawson took the hit, rolled, came up swinging. “Cheap shot.”

“Truth hurts.”

They circled each other in the ring, muscles taut, breath coming harder now.

Jesse feinted left, then drove a jab into Dawson’s ribs that earned a grunt.

Dawson retaliated with a sweeping low kick that nearly took Jesse’s legs out from under him.

They grappled, arms locked, forearms slick with sweat, each pushing the other to the edge of their endurance.