Page 21 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)
The ride back to the loft was tight with silence.
Dawson kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes forward, but his mind kept drifting sideways—worrying the pieces of the puzzle, cataloging threats.
Evangeline didn’t panic. She didn’t plead.
She stared out the window like she could rewrite reality with pure force of will.
The city lights slipped by, refracted in the glass, and for a moment he saw her reflection—eyes wide and haunted.
The moment the door to the loft closed behind them, Dawson turned the deadbolt and leaned against it, watching her—waiting for her.
“I need something,” she said quietly.
He tilted his head. “What?”
“You.” She stepped toward him. “I need you to remind me I’m still here. Still... real.”
He moved fast. One hand tangled in her hair, the other slid down to her hip. “You sure?”
Her breath hitched. “Yes.”
For a beat, Dawson didn’t move. He watched her—really watched her—and in that sliver of quiet, the need in her voice cracked something open in him.
This wasn’t just about sex. It never had been.
This was about grounding her. About anchoring them both to something that wasn’t suspicion or blood or betrayal.
It was about control—his—and the calm it brought them both when everything else was chaos.
He didn’t give her a chance to change her mind. He took her face in both hands, drawing her gaze up until there was nowhere for her to hide. For a moment, she tried—tried to look away, to steel herself—but he wouldn’t let her.
“Don’t do that,” he said softly. “Don’t vanish on me now.”
Her throat worked. She blinked hard, and he saw the tears she wouldn’t let fall.
He kissed her—slow, searching, nothing like dominance or command.
This wasn’t about breaking her down; this was about putting her back together.
The kiss deepened, heat growing by degrees, need spiraling as he pressed her backward until the back of her knees hit the bed.
She went down without protest, breath trembling, hands fisting in his shirt as if she could hold herself together by holding on to him.
He stripped her carefully—lifting the sweater, baring her skin to the dim, uncertain light. Her skin was warm, soft, covered in goosebumps that rose beneath his palms. He worshipped her body, mouth tracing every scar and every hollow, until she was trembling for a different reason entirely.
"You’re not broken," he whispered into the hollow of her throat, his lips brushing her skin. "You’re just battle-scarred. And so am I."
She made a low, desperate sound, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I need you," she breathed. "Don’t be gentle. Not tonight. I want to feel alive. I want to feel you."
He groaned, control fraying at the edges, and yanked his own shirt over his head.
Skin met skin, heat meeting heat. The first glide of his hand down her side was gentle, reverent.
The next was rough, squeezing her hip, hauling her closer.
He pinned her wrists above her head and she arched beneath him, helpless and hungry, every line of her body a challenge and a plea.
His mouth found her breast, tongue swirling around the tight bud until she gasped and twisted under him, his name falling from her lips like a benediction and a dare. He sucked harder, teeth grazing just enough to make her writhe.
She tried to turn her face, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You stay with me, Evvy. Right here."
He entered her slowly, teasing her with every inch—just the thick, swollen head at first, nudging her open until her hips twisted and her nails scored his back in hungry, desperate lines.
He held himself there, just inside her, making her feel the stretch, the sweet ache of anticipation, his breath rough against her mouth.
Evangeline whimpered, writhing beneath him, her thighs trembling as he finally drove deeper.
She was so slick, so wet, her heat drawing him in, the velvet grip of her body clenching and fluttering around his cock.
She arched up to take him fully, greedy and wild, every muscle straining to pull him deeper, to keep him locked inside as he began to thrust—slow at first, then faster, harder, grinding deep until every shudder rocked her to her core.
The friction of his length dragging along her sensitive walls, the obscene slick heat, the rhythm building, stole the air from her lungs as she gasped his name, over and over.
He buried himself to the hilt, holding there, letting her feel every inch, the fullness, the claiming—her whole body vibrating with need, sensation razoring through her until she was shaking beneath him, lost in the merciless pleasure of being utterly, completely his.
He set a slow, grinding pace—each movement deliberate, stretching her, forcing her to feel every inch, every claim.
Their bodies tangled together, legs locking, hands roaming, mouths meeting in hungry, messy kisses.
Sweat beaded along their skin, the room filling with the scent of sex and need and something deeper—something that tasted like home.
She clung to him, nails scraping down his back, crying out with each thrust, not from pain but from the overwhelming sensations. “Dawson—” His name was a plea and a promise.
He sped up, chasing her cries, each thrust a deep, relentless demand—her pleasure cresting and breaking in waves.
The rhythm grew wilder, their bodies colliding with a ferocity that sent sharp slaps of skin echoing off the loft’s bare walls, the space pulsing with the scent and sound of their union.
Her heels dug into his back, spurring him on, and she arched up into him, breath coming in ragged gasps, hair fanning wild across the sheets as he drove her higher.
Her climax took her like a storm—rippling up from her core, locking her muscles around him, a sharp, helpless sob wrung from her throat.
The rawness of it, the surrender, the wild, sensual abandon—it tore through her, flooding her veins with heat and relief as she came, body shuddering, clutching him inside, unable and unwilling to hold anything back.
He watched her come undone—her body bucking, mouth open in a silent cry, every muscle clamping down on him.
He gripped her hips, burying himself to the hilt, pride and hunger twisting together as he held her through the shudders.
His own climax ripped through him, white-hot and overwhelming, a fierce, guttural growl breaking from deep in his chest as he thrust harder, the world narrowing to the violent, exquisite ecstasy of losing himself inside her.
He emptied himself with a raw, desperate need, every pulse a promise he couldn't put into words—pouring everything he was into the one place he’d ever felt truly wanted.
When he finally collapsed against her, their sweat-slicked bodies fused in the heat and aftermath, he felt hollowed out, ruined, and utterly whole.
For a moment, all was quiet but for the ragged sound of their breathing. He collapsed beside her, dragging her into his arms, sweat cooling between them as her heart raced against his chest.
She shook in his hold—not from cold, but from everything she’d been holding in, everything she could finally let go.
He pressed his mouth to her hair, breathing her in. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “All the pieces, all the wreckage. I’m not letting go.”
She clung to him, face pressed to his throat. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Just… don’t.”
He held her tighter, letting the world shrink to just this: skin on skin, pulse on pulse, the knowledge that here, at least, they were safe. For now.
Dawson stayed beside her for a long time, holding her through the aftershocks, feeling her heartbeat slow. In the hush, Evangeline whispered, “Do you ever regret stepping into my mess?”
He shook his head. “You’re not a mess. You’re the reason I want out of the shadows.”
For a while, they lay in silence, breath mingling, skin still humming with adrenaline and need. When she finally dozed against his chest, Dawson checked his phone.
One message. Jesse again.
JESSE: Surveillance footage wiped. Entry logs scrubbed. Someone inside helped.
Dawson’s jaw clenched.
“Trouble?” Evangeline asked, her voice low.
“Yeah.” He met her gaze. “We’re not just dealing with a frame job. We’re up against someone who knows exactly how to cover their tracks. And they’re still inside.”
She leaned back, eyes sharp. “Then let’s find out who wanted me framed.”
She started pacing, that restless energy coiling in her spine again. “I want access to the board’s travel logs and Peter’s last week of communications. No filters. No corporate handlers.”
Dawson watched her with a mix of admiration and wariness. “You planning on storming the executive suite with a laptop and a glare?” He crossed his arms. “You’re not an investigator, Evvy. You’re PR. I’m the one with the training—and the gun.”
She turned, fire dancing in her eyes. “PR might not come with a holster, but I know how to corner a narrative and bury a bastard in headlines. So yeah—if I have to push, I’ll push hard.”
He didn’t smile. But damn if his heart didn’t beat a little easier hearing that fire in her voice again.
“Tomorrow, we start digging.” He didn’t say the rest out loud, but it hung there between them: Langley had motive, Squire had access, and they had someone on the inside with technical skills to scrub the trail clean.
She nodded. “And tonight?”
He stepped toward her, slow and deliberate.
“Tonight,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’re not just a guest here, or someone I’m protecting. You’re in my space now, Evvy—my world. That means my bed, with me. No more lines, no more distance. You stay, and you stay with me.”
She tilted her chin, eyes glinting with mischief. “What makes you think I ever had any plans not to?” she teased, shifting just enough for her hip to brush his.
He closed the distance between them, his hand sliding to the small of her back, possessive and sure.
“Careful,” he murmured, lips hovering near hers, “sassing can be a punishable offense, and I'll bet that gorgeous ass of yours would look really pretty painted bright red from a spanking.”
She grinned, lifting her chin, defiant and wicked. “Promises, promises. But you keep threatening, cowboy—one of these nights you’re going to have to stop talking and prove you can actually handle me.”
For a moment Dawson couldn't speak. She'd sassed him. In the middle of everything, she'd had the temerity to sass him. He threw back his head and laughed.
Outside, the storm kept gathering, the city’s lights flickering with every secret waiting to be unearthed.