Page 12 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

EVANGELINE

H is mouth was kissing her again when he spun her, pressing her back to the exposed brick, the impact jolting a gasp from her lips before it melted into a darker thrill.

The cool grit of the wall scraped against her back, sharp and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the molten heat flaring beneath her skin.

The wall was rough, but his body was fire—unrelenting, branding her with every breath.

Dawson’s hand braced above her head, the other sliding up her arm to lift her wrists, locking them in place, holding her as if he had every right to.

She should’ve resisted. She didn’t. Not when his chest crushed against her curves with bruising intent.

Not when his thigh pressed tight between hers, spreading her open until her breath caught.

Not when his palm slipped under the silk of her blouse, calloused and commanding, and closed around her breast with a pressure that sent sparks shooting through her.

She moaned, soft and unguarded, her body arching toward the touch like it had been waiting forever to be claimed.

Her head tipped back, spine curving, offering more.

The pad of his thumb circled her nipple, slow and punishing, the sensation pulling taut across her nerves until her legs trembled.

The air between them crackled, heat unfurling like smoke through her blood, pooling low and urgent as his mouth dragged along her jaw.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she gazed up at him, heat and uncertainty warring just under the surface.

Dawson’s grip softened, his thumb sweeping over her pulse as if to remind her that, beneath all the intensity, her choices were still her own.

The room crackled with unspoken questions, the air thick with the weight of expectation and the ache for surrender.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, and in a voice that was more invitation than command, he murmured, “Kneel for me.”

Evangeline’s breath caught. Her first instinct was to refuse, old pride rising up—her father’s voice in her head, the years of holding tight to control.

She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to retreat, to turn this into a battle of wills.

But then she looked up at Dawson and saw not dominance but quiet patience.

Her knees trembled. She stared at the carpet, heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

For one dizzying second, every old fear and expectation roared to life: Don’t let them see you yield.

Don’t let go. Never show weakness. The words were ghosts, crowding the space between her and the man waiting, unhurried, in front of her.

She could have walked away right then. She could have spat out a retort, armored up, and retreated to the well-worn shell of control. But she didn’t want to—not really. She wanted to see what would happen if she let herself fall.

Drawing a shaky breath, she tipped her chin up to meet his eyes.

There was no mockery in his gaze, only a steady patience that dared her to believe she was safe with Dawson.

The decision was hers—no pressure, no threat, just a space for honesty.

If she wanted it, she could take it. If she didn’t, she was still free.

With trembling hands, she lowered herself to her knees, feeling the rug’s scratch under her skin, every nerve alight. The rush wasn’t just fear; it was relief, too—liberation, of a kind she had never tasted.

She was coming apart under his touch, every nerve exposed and trembling, desperate for more—for his command, his possession, the complete undoing that only he could give.

A quiver started in her chest and slipped lower, heat curling beneath her skin, spreading through her hips in a pulse of reckless need—for everything—when her phone rang.

The shrill interruption sliced through the tension.

Dawson stilled, jaw clenched. For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he let go and stepped back, leaving her skin tingling with absence. She fumbled for her clutch, hands shaking, her body still humming with unsatisfied need.

It was her secretary. "Reminder, ma’am—you have the Texas Gulf Fund gala tonight. The other executives and the Board will be expecting you. Your father will be expecting you to fill in for him. Black tie. Photos. The usual. Should I coordinate with Mr. Rhodes’ secretary?"

“No. From here on out Mr. Rhodes and I won’t be attending anything together, but I appreciate the reminder call.”

Of course. The fundraiser.

She muttered something resembling thanks and hung up. Dawson watched her from across the room, his arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I need a shower.”

He didn’t stop her.

The water was frigid, but it did the job—sort of.

She leaned into the punishing spray, forehead pressed to the chilled tile, the water biting against her overheated skin.

It was a cruel contrast—sharp needles of cold that only seemed to drive the heat deeper, chasing it into corners of her body the water couldn’t reach.

The pounding spray echoed in her ears, loud and relentless, like her pulse thundering in her throat, mirroring the chaos still churning inside her.

Her breasts ached, her thighs still tingled where his leg had pressed, and the heat he’d stirred clung to her skin in defiance of the cold.

She could still feel him—his voice rough and commanding, the scrape of his stubble, the brutal promise of his grip—and it wasn’t the water that made her shiver.

Goosebumps rose along her skin as she leaned her forehead against the tile and tried to cool the fire still burning beneath the surface. It was the memory of him, branding her from the inside out, a phantom touch seared into her flesh, craving left behind like fingerprints on her soul.

She imagined what would’ve happened if the phone hadn’t rung. Would he have carried her to the bedroom? Bent her over the couch? The thought sent heat racing to her skin, mocking the chill of the water.

What the hell was happening to her?

She dressed deliberately—carefully. If he thought she’d let that kiss hang unanswered, he didn’t know her very well. Yet.

The cocktail dress she chose was black, short, and cut within an inch of scandal. It was the kind of dress that whispered danger and dared judgment, one Peter had always called too provocative for corporate events. She wore it anyway.

Because tonight, she didn’t want to blend.

She wanted to provoke. To reclaim something.

The confidence that had been slowly bleeding out of her since the engagement, the illusion of control she'd clung to like a life raft. This wasn’t about seduction—it was about stepping back into her own skin, and making damn sure Dawson Hart noticed every inch of it.

It hugged her curves, dipped low in the front and lower in the back.

She swept her hair up, added blood-red lipstick, and stepped back into the main space with her heels clicking a staccato of challenge.

Dawson looked up from his laptop—and stilled. His gaze raked over her, slow and incendiary.

She gave a little twirl. "Do I pass inspection?"

For a split second, something flared in his eyes—heat, possession, hunger—but he locked it down fast, burying it behind a blank mask. His jaw flexed as he shut the laptop and rose, the tension in his shoulders speaking volumes even if his lips stayed silent.

He didn’t answer.

They rode in silence to the venue. Evangeline stared out the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of light and shadow.

Her skin still tingled where Dawson's mouth had been, the ghost of his touch lingering like an unfinished sentence. Every bump in the road seemed to echo through her spine. What the hell was she doing? She should be focused—this fundraiser mattered, her family’s reputation mattered—but all she could think about was the way his thigh had pressed between hers, the way he’d said he wouldn’t stop.

Safety had never thrilled her. Peter had been safe.

Predictable. But Dawson? He was a walking question she ached to answer with her body.

Her pulse throbbed at the memory. She crossed her legs, trying to ignore the ache building between them. Was he pulling back to protect her? Or himself? The silence stretched, thick and humming with everything unsaid.

The event was held in one of the newer hotels on the River Walk, all chandeliers and polished chrome.

Every time someone greeted her, Dawson was there—solid, intimidating, lethal in a tailored suit.

She could feel the eyes on her, some admiring, others calculating.

That was the game—appearances, influence, legacy.

And now, Dawson was part of her equation.

She leaned in, letting her voice brush his ear. "I should probably bring you up to speed on who’s who. Dance with me? That man by the bar? Oil lobbyist with a fetish for interns. The woman next to him? Her father’s golf partner’s fourth wife. Plastic and poisonous."

His brows lifted, but he followed her onto the floor.

The music was smooth jazz, something smoky and low. She stepped into his arms and tilted her face up, watching the flicker of conflict in his eyes. He held her close—but not close enough. His hands were firm, guiding. Restrained.

“You’re a surprisingly good dancer, cowboy. Let me guess—cotillion lessons as a teen?”

“Bounty hunting didn’t cover ballroom.”

“You’re holding back.”

He met her gaze evenly. “If I weren’t, you’d be against that wall again. Only this time, I wouldn’t stop.”

Her breath caught, a tremor skating down her spine. The low timbre of his voice wasn’t just a threat—it was a promise. Her body answered before her mind could catch up, pulse kicking hard, thighs clenching in anticipation. She was both terrified and aching for exactly what that meant.

Heat pulsed between her thighs.

“Tempting,” she murmured.

“You don’t know the rules.”

“Then teach me.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He guided her through a side door and out onto a quiet balcony, the sounds of the party fading behind them. The river shimmered below, lights twinkling across the water.

Dawson turned her into the shadows and backed her against the wall again. This time, he kissed her like he was starving. Her knees nearly buckled under the weight of his kiss. If he’d ordered her down, she would’ve dropped without a second thought.

His mouth was hot and commanding, tongue stroking hers with precision, hands planted beside her head, hemming her in with quiet authority.

The brick scraped at her back—rough and unyielding—but all she could register was the overwhelming contrast of his warmth.

Dawson’s body radiated heat, his nearness a furnace she willingly stepped into.

Her pulse surged, and every breath carried her closer to the edge.

A wave of need sluiced through her, molten and undeniable.

She clutched his jacket, not to pull him closer, but to steady herself against the undertow he’d unleashed.

Every nerve ending reached for him, trembling at the brink of surrender.

And then—he stopped.

He didn’t say a word. Just stared down at her like she was a question he didn’t want to answer.

Then he took her hand and led her back inside.

She followed without a word, her skin still tingling where his mouth had been, her thoughts a swirl of frustration and unspoken hunger.

Every step in silence only amplified the ache.

Why had he stopped? Why pull back now when her body was begging to be ruined?

The quiet between them was louder than any music—tight and humming with unsaid things.

Back in the truck, she was silent. Furious. Turned on.

Every nerve in her body still buzzed from the heat of his mouth, the possessive grip of his hands.

She stared out the window, city lights flickering like the chaos in her chest. Her skin felt too tight, her dress too thin, her body caught in a limbo of want and restraint.

Why the hell had he stopped? Was he trying to prove a point—or simply torturing them both?

Her breath hitched with every bump in the road, the phantom press of his thigh between hers as vivid as the moment it happened.

The ache between her thighs hadn’t eased.

It had settled into a low, relentless hum, winding tight through her muscles, curling up her spine like a slow-moving fire she couldn’t stamp out—not with logic, not with a cold shower, and definitely not with Dawson’s maddening silence.

She shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together as if she could smother the ache clawing its way through her.

Her nails dug crescent moons into her palm, a poor substitute for the release she craved.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him again—or slap him senseless.

When they returned to the loft, he held the door open.

“Go to bed, Evangeline.”

She turned. “Seriously?”

His eyes were hard. Controlled. “We do this my way. Or not at all.”

He turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving her standing there, heart racing, body aching, and mind spinning.

She didn’t know whether to scream, curse, or sink to the floor and tear at the longing he’d left in his wake.

Her body still hummed with the echo of his mouth, each breath shallow and laced with frustration.

In a flash, she imagined herself kneeling, wrists offered, spine bowed in submission she hadn’t known she craved.

The image struck hard—a clash of vulnerability and desire that made her thighs clench.

Evangeline pictured his hand gripping her hair—could practically feel it—her wrists bound in soft leather, her cries swallowed by his kiss.

She wanted to give in. Wanted to be undone and rebuilt by his hands alone.

His kiss still lingered at the corners of her mouth, burning hot and unforgiving, a silent claim that dared her to demand more.

And as she stood there, pulse pounding and need clawing just beneath her skin, she knew one thing for damn sure—she was already his to ruin, and she’d beg him to finish the job.