I should read, check my email, return calls, anything at all, but my entire body thrums with awareness of her kneeling beside me. Her breathing gradually steadies as minutes tick past. When I’m certain she’s settled, I reach for the tray I’d set down earlier.
“Open.”
Her lips part automatically as I press a grape to her mouth. The sight of her accepting my offering sends heat straight to my cock.
After she swallows, she takes a breath, like she’s going to say something sharp. I push a morsel of cheese into her mouth, cutting her off before she can even start.
“Don’t say a fucking word. Just sit there and enjoy the quiet,” I instruct her.
Shiloh blinks, then chews slowly. Her expression remains thoughtful, and then she nods, relaxing back on her haunches. Her agreement feels like a hard-won victory, and the pressure in my chest eases.
I feed her slowly, each morsel a reward for her submission. The mood turns languorous. When I feed her a piece of bread,my fingers brush against her lips. Her tongue flicks at my thumb when the juice of a strawberry rolls down my skin. Our breathing turns uneven as the meal turns into a ritual of worship and submission.
When I offer her a sip of water from my glass, she drinks it gratefully, and the sight of her lips touching where my own did is painfully erotic.
I finish the meal with squares of chocolate—a habit from my childhood I’ve never been able to break.
“Open your mouth,” I say quietly, no need to command her—her obedience is instant. “Tongue out.” I place a morsel of chocolate on her tongue, and she eats it, sighing softly with pleasure.
Fuck, I want more of this. More of her sweetness than her sharpness.
When she’s done, her eyes flick up to mine, uncertain.
“Easy,” I reassure her. I guide her head to rest against my thigh, feeling her whole body tremble with anticipation. “Just rest.”
Time blurs as I finally dig into my email on my phone, one hand always touching her, stroking her hair, tracing her spine, reminding her who she belongs to. Shiloh relaxes into me, leaning her cheek on my thigh. By the time I’m done, she’s dozed off. Protectiveness surges through me. I’m loath to disturb her.
“Hellcat,” I say softly, scratching the top of her head.
Her eyes blink open as she looks up at me, languid and sweet. I stand, my hand on her shoulder so she doesn’t overbalance, then scoop her up into my arms.
I should make a point of waking her up. Force her to walk through the house naked. Exert my control.
I do none of that, tucking her head against mine and chuckling softly when she nuzzles into my neck, curling into my chest as I hold her, marveling at her softness.
Miguel’s words echo in my mind as I climb the stairs.She’s not one of your horses. She’s not something you can break and rebuild.
I stop in front of the guest room door, then change my mind. Instead, I tuck her beneath my sheets, marveling at her hair strewn across my pillow and ignoring the screaming voice in the back of my mind that tells me I’m making a mistake.
No shit, Shiloh isn’t one of my horses.
She’s far more dangerous.
5
Shiloh
Sunlight creepsacross Jackson’s bed, warming sheets that he’d left cold when he slipped out this morning, kissing me on the forehead when he thought I was still asleep.
I stretch, muscles pleasantly sore from yesterday’s training session, and catch myself burrowing deeper into his pillow, hunting for the ghost of cedar and leather he’d left behind.
Damn him to hell. Three nights in his bed, nearly a week under his roof, and still he hasn’t claimed what we both know he will. The anticipation has become its own torture—every touch a dark promise, every possessive kiss a warning that someday, very soon, that iron control will finally splinter beneath the weight of his obsession.
And my ambivalence about it terrifies me.
I slip from silk sheets onto hardwood floors. Everything in this room screams wealth, from the hand-knotted rug to the hardwood floors to the sterling silver mirror that reflects my tangled hair and flushed cheeks.
A garment bag hangs on the closet door, along with a note in Jackson’s precise handwriting:Wear this. We have errands in town.
