Page 3 of The Tracker (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #5)

She nodded, numb. As the door shut, the muffled bass of music from somewhere close drifted in. The far window looked down into what she assumed, from Keely's description, to be the dungeon floor—or a very elaborate movie set.

Curious, she crossed the room and peered out. Her breath caught. A naked woman was restrained to a large X, which she was fairly certain was a St. Andrew's Cross. A tall, shirtless, muscular man stood beside her. He was a study in dominance made flesh.

Broad shoulders rolled with quiet menace, every inch of his chest cut from sinew and strength.

Ropes of muscle stretched over a sternum dusted in dark hair, the kind that trailed south in a line that begged to be followed—with mouth, with fingers, with surrender.

His skin was golden, weathered just enough to hint at hard work and harder nights, and he wore his scars like stories—unapologetic and earned.

His abs rippled when he moved, not from vanity but from function, as though he had been built to lift, to haul, to pin and hold.

Veins snaked down his arms, pulsing beneath sun-kissed skin, and a subtle sheen of sweat made him look even more untamed, as if he had just stepped out of the heat and hadn’t cooled down yet.

And then there were the leather pants. Oh my god... the leather pants.

Worn low on narrow hips, they clung to him like a second skin—black, broken-in, and molded to the powerful lines of his thighs.

Every shift of his stance stretched the supple material over hard muscle, daring the eye to drop and stay there.

This wasn't a costume. Those were the pants of a man who knew what control felt like in his grip—on a horse, in a fight, or across a submissive's skin.

Evangeline's eyes were fixated on the scene before her: the man's strong, muscular arm rose and fell with precision as he brandished the flogger, its tails leaving behind a network of reddening marks across the woman's bared flesh.

Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly to the St. Andrew's Cross, her body vulnerable and open for his relentless ministrations.

With each strike, the woman seemed to whimper softly, her head bowed in submission as her hair cascaded around her face like a waterfall cloaking a secret oasis.

From her vantage point in the observation room, Evangeline saw him lean in close, his lips moving as he whispered something against the woman's ear.

The Dom—yes, that was the term, a Dom with a capital D—raised the flogger like a scepter, dragging the falls over her shoulder and down the woman’s back.

He seemed to be completely focused on the woman before him, his lips moving in words of encouragement or perhaps, instruction.

She responded by arching her back even more, pressing her hips towards him in an act of desperate obedience.

It resembled an intricate dance, a powerful exchange between two bodies bound by mutual trust and understanding. Their connection was palpable, evident in the way they anticipated each other's movements and communicated with silent, shared signals.

The woman’s breathing seemed to grow heavier as the dance between them continued. Her fingers curled around the restraints, knuckles white with tension. The way she bit down on her lower lip, holding back further noises betrayed how much pleasure she was experiencing in that moment.

The Dom allowed his free hand to roam across her body; fingertips grazed over swollen nipples, lingering momentarily before continuing their journey down the curve of her waist and ultimately stopping at the apex of her thighs.

He expertly manipulated her most sensitive parts, eliciting a shudder that reverberated through every inch of her being.

Their bodies seemed to find an unspoken synchronicity—his strikes becoming more forceful and deliberate with every responding movement from his willing participant.

Engrossed in this intimate tango, both the Dom and the woman embodied passion and carnality that held Evangeline captive to their performance.

With firm, deliberate movements, the Dom wielded the flogger, each lash landing exactly where he intended.

The room seemed to throb with pulsating music, which dictated his rhythmic movements as he flicked his wrist in perfect unison with the beat.

The sight of the leather falls landing on her skin built into a mesmerizing crescendo, captivating Evangeline as she became entranced by this carefully choreographed performance, even without sound.

Each flick of the flogger was like a silent drumbeat, and though she couldn’t hear the cries or gasps, she could feel them, almost taste them, in the tension thrumming through the glass.

During a brief lull in their rhythm, the man tenderly traced his broad palm down her back, his fingertips delicately bridging the expanse between her shoulders.

Leaning in close, he whispered something in her ear, while his hand gently cradled the back of her neck, offering both comfort and reassurance.

Selecting a new flogger from his collection, he inspected it briefly before continuing—this one appeared to be crafted from supple leather strands, each adorned with tiny knots at the ends. Would these knots deliver a more intense sensation, she wondered?

The first impact of the new implement caused the woman to momentarily tense, her body instinctively bracing for the sensation that followed.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, then lowered her head and exhaled slowly, signaling her readiness to proceed.

The Dom resumed his deliberate assault on her body, delivering carefully placed strikes across her shoulders, buttocks, and thighs, skillfully avoiding any direct contact with her spine.

As she acclimated to this new sensation, the woman's body began to sway gently with each calculated hit. She no longer resisted; instead, she embraced every sensation he provided. It was evident that she trusted him completely, and with that trust came a euphoric surrender to the moment.

Evangeline's gaze remained steady, her eyes eagerly absorbing every detail of the unfolding scene and she felt compelled to witness herself in the intimate moment.

A flush crept up Evangeline's neck, not from horror, but something darker, deeper—a pull she didn’t want to name, much less recognize in herself.

She’d heard whispers and read about people who chased the edge, who surrendered to impact and sensation, craving that exquisite line between pleasure and pain.

But this… this was ritual. Art. Seduction. And she couldn’t look away.

Doubt pierced her, cooling the warmth rising inside her.

For a flicker, her old instincts reared up—her spine straightening, jaw tightening, as if sheer willpower could pull her back to the polished, controlled woman she was supposed to be.

She clenched her fists against the windowsill, a tremor in her arms, the urge to walk away almost overwhelming.

This isn’t you. You don’t let people see you break. You don’t even let yourself feel this much.

But the ache inside was stubborn. There was a part of her that wanted to prove she could still choose, even if the choice was surrender.

For a breathless moment, she hesitated—her body at war with her mind, pride dragging her away from the glass even as hunger pulled her closer.

She closed her eyes, exhaling shakily, and when she opened them again, she chose to stay.

Not out of weakness, but a deliberate, trembling act of defiance against everything she’d ever been told about who she was supposed to be.

She planted her feet, lifted her chin, and let herself watch.

The Dom worked slowly, with precision. Controlled. Commanding. He said something she couldn’t hear, and the woman seemed to melt beneath his voice.

Her heart pounded, though not entirely from fear.

There was something illicit, something deeply intimate in the scene unfolding before her—an unspoken language of trust, desire, and exquisite control.

Her hands clenched the windowsill, knuckles white, as her gaze locked with his through the glass, just for a breath.

She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to.

She was aroused. Flushed and aching in ways she didn’t understand, much less know what to do with. But the need was real. Sharp. Awakening something inside her that had been dormant—perhaps even non-existent—for far too long.

Evangeline's skin prickled. A slow pulse of heat bloomed low in her belly, unfamiliar and unnerving. She should have looked away, but her feet stayed planted, her breath shallow. What kind of man wielded a flogger like that—and why the hell did she want to find out?

The door opened again.

Keely breezed in holding a change of clothes, a sandwich, and a bottle of water. “Damn. Did I miss Dawson using his new flogger? He's one of the best whipmasters at the club."

“So this is the place you and Jesse like to hang out?” Evangeline murmured, not moving from the window.

Keely lifted an eyebrow, ignoring her question and thrusting the clothing—a slouchy sweater, leggings and cowboy boots—at Evangeline. "You might want to get changed. Good thing we wear the same size," she said, her voice playful.

Apparently it took more than a stray bullet and a car chase to rattle Keely.

Evangeline pulled the sweater over her head, the soft fabric slouching off one shoulder with casual defiance.

The leggings fit snug, molding to her curves, and the cowboy boots clunked solidly against the hardwood floor as she adjusted them.

She tugged the hem of the deep V-neckline, giving Keely a look.

“You couldn’t spring for something with a little more fabric up top?

I’m one wrong move away from flashing your security team. ”

Keely grinned. “You’re welcome. Subtle cleavage is a power move, darling. Embrace it.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “Thanks for the rescue. And the sandwich. And the borderline indecent sweater.” She glanced back at the dungeon floor. "So the men here like to dominate women?"

“Roles aren't based on gender. The club is where Doms dominate or top submissives. You know what kind of playground this is, Evvy. You’ve heard me talk about it enough. And I've seen some of the books on your Kindle.”

Evangeline pointed. “So the guy with the flogger and tight pants is Dawson?” She hoped her voice didn't come out as breathy and aroused as she thought it had.

Keely grinned. “Yep. Dawson Hart. Former Ranger. Army CID. Major badass and lead tracker for Silver Spur.”

Evangeline swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, as though the air itself had thickened with heat and want. Her pulse skipped, then surged with dizzying urgency, each beat sending warmth cascading through her—slow, smoky, and undeniable—until every breath felt edged with need.

Every nerve in her body was suddenly tuned to that man—the way he moved, commanded, controlled.

She pressed her thighs tighter, as if that could smother the ache building low and deep.

But it was too late. Heat pulsed through her, insistent and overwhelming, and she wasn’t sure she wanted it to stop.

What the hell had she gotten herself into?