His teeth scraped my tender skin. “Did you think that would trick me? Random tunnel under the barns?”
My thoughts had gone blank with relief. “I kind of did.”
He tutted, bringing his lips just below my ear. “You underestimate me every time, Bee.”
Did I? Oh, God, I did. A lot. “It’s just that,” I forced out, my voice thin, “you’re always the nice guy.”
“The nice guy,” he repeated, his hand tightening around my throat gently and his teeth nipping at my earlobe.
“You never take things seriously,” I continued, voicing my deepest fears in the only way I knew how. Indirectly.
“Is that right?” His firm body kept me pinned to the wall, but he reached between us with his free hand and slowly unzipped my jacket. He wasn’t going to fuck me in front of the horses, was he?
“Maybe?” I squeaked.
He pulled away from me just long enough to wrench my open coat off my shoulders. “Turn and face the wall.”
Oh, hell, he was going to fuck me in front of the horses. I obeyed, and he divested me of my coat. Then his hands were on my waist, branding me with their warmth and pinning me in place. I had on another one of my worn, comfortable, plaid button-downs, but I’d kept it unbuttoned with a black tank top beneath. He slid his hands under the plaid, tracing the outline of my waist and dropping a kiss against the back of my neck. I shivered, and all fear and subsequent relief fled my system. Dark desire pooled between my legs and hammered at my heart.
He’d caught me. There was a blissful release in that—I was his, and there was nothing more to say or think. I sighed softly, and Spencer peeled my shirt down my skin, slowly, kissing myshoulder in a path as he did. The shirt fell to the barn floor, and then he landed butterfly light touches on my shoulders and arms. Goosebumps broke out along my arms, and I closed my eyes, finally catching my breath after my run.
“I guess since I’m so nice,” Spencer said, his voice so low, it hummed through my back and straight to my panties, “I’ll give you some choices.”
I couldn’t even talk, I was so enraptured by the moment. I’d run and he’d caught me, and now I was putty in his hands.
Spencer’s wide hands spanned my waist and stomach, slipping beneath the thin fabric and smoothing across my bare skin. An ache formed between my legs, pulsing with my heartbeat and distracting me from his hands. “You can choose your consequence for being caught.” Elation snagged in my throat. He reached above me, where a dusty, unused riding crop had been haphazardly hung between two horseshoes. When he brought it down, my eyes widened so hard, they strained.
“Do you want three lashes to your ass, or do I get to cut your,” he glanced down my body, “weathered clothing from your body?”
He was giving me a choice of kinks, and if I knew Spencer, it was because he remembered I was a “maybe” on spanking. The problem was, I wanted them both. I groaned, letting my head rest against the rough wall. “These are my good jeans.”
Spencer pressed into me, pinning me against the wall again. His warm breath gusted over my ear and cheekbone. “Bee… there are holes in both ass cheeks of these jeans.”
“I said what I said,” I managed to get out.
“Right, well that sorts that.” Spencer tossed the riding crop aside and trailed his hands up my waist to my ribs, around the curve of my breasts and to my arms. As he smoothed his warm fingers down my chilled arms, I shivered again, and my pussy gave a needy clench. He wrapped his hands around my wrists,and then slowly, like he was waiting for me to say no, he brought them above my head. If my kink was… well, everything to do with Spencer… then his had to be hands above my head. He’d done this last time, and I couldn’t complain. It was hot as fuck.
Spencer twined my hands through the leather tack hanging above us, not really binding my hands, but looping the halter and reins around my wrists. “Hold onto this, cowgirl.”
I went breathless again, but not from exertion. Spencer was driving me wild with touches, fluttering down my ribcage and then smoothing across my stomach, tugging my tank top up to my breasts. He plucked my winter hat off my head, and then parting my hair to the side, he ghosted a prickling kiss against my neck. “You are so soft,” he groaned, inhaling me and gripping my hips, pressing me back against his hard body.
I tilted my head, giving him better access to my neck, but then he disappeared for a moment, leaving me cold and bereft. I looked over my shoulder, still holding onto the worn leather tack, and I found him rifling through one of my medical boxes. I kept several of them stashed around the ranch with basic supplies, and he found what he was looking for quickly. Slowly—deviously slowly—he brandished a pair of trauma shears. “Consequences.”
“I really do like these jeans,” I reminded him.
“I really don’t care.” He returned to me, snipping the shears twice for effect, and then his warmth was all around me again. His scent, that maddening, expensive cologne, now served as a torturous elixir. Spencer smoothed his hand around my ribcage, palming my breasts and then groaning, echoing the buzzing contentment that filled my body when he touched me.
The cold prick of metal on skin was the only warning I had before Spencer slipped the trauma shears up my back, easily slicing my tank top in half before snipping each strap. He slid the fabric away from my body, and before I could even begin to thinkabout it, three perfunctory snips did away with my bra. Then I was topless in my dirty, faded jeans, and Spencer took a step back to admire his handiwork. I peeked over my shoulder again and found smoldering brown eyes devouring my body. He spun the scissors over his fingers once, cocking his head. “Perfection.”
My face went scarlet. I didn’t think it was because I was bare to his gaze—it was because he admired me.
When Spencer returned to me, he glided one hand up the middle of my stomach, causing me to exhale sharply, and then his fingers burned a trail between my breasts before ghosting to one nipple. He pinched it gently, and I moaned, arching into his touch. My nerves lit up, warming between my legs and spreading through my limbs like wildfire.
With his other hand, he slowly snipped at the side of my jeans, teasing my nipple and kissing my shoulder. He nipped my skin, flicked his tongue to soothe it, and then worked his way up my throat, all the while torturing my nipple gently and sliding the scissors down my hip. When he had one side of my jeans sagging open, he switched. His left hand cut into the waistband of my jeans, and his right palm swirled over my nipple, drenching my panties.
“Look at me, Arabella,” he commanded softly. I did, slowly peeling my eyes open to stare at him through a fog of mounting lust. He captured my lips with his, and then I was lost. Lost to all thoughts beyond the gentle pluck of his fingers against my nipple and that cold, stark slide of the scissors down my hips. My jeans sagged down to my knees, and he pressed his foot between my legs, forcing the fabric down.
His kiss slowed, and he took a moment to throw the scissors aside, hook his thumbs in my polka-dot, cotton panties, and then slide them down my body. He kissed my hip, my cheek—palming and squeezing the other—and then the back of my thighs as he went. My legs started to shake, and my handsgripped the leather, hanging on for dear life because my God, I’d never wanted someone more in my life.
