Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

“I don’t know. I guess I expected a different answer.”

Like the fact that he tried to have Conor and Lorne killed? If she knows about that, we have a serious problem.

She purses her lips, scrutinizing my carefully guarded expression. “So you’re broke.”

“My father’s broke. Jake has a sound mind for business, and I replaced the ranch hands with a dependable crew. We’re out of the red and will only improve from here.”

None of what I told her is public information, but it won’t hurt if she leaks it. Ranching is a tough business and a strenuous life. Very few make good money at it. We’re the wealthiest landowners in Sandbank, but it’s inherited wealth. Our fortune lies in the oil that runs beneath the pastures.

“My turn.” I angle my head, marking the tension in her shoulders. “You said we weren’t on your radar until recently. Explain how that happened.”

“I was following a lead on a different project, and it led me to your father.”

“What was the lead?”

“Someone you know.”

“Who?”

She stares right at me and pins her lips.

Did she follow the trail of one of my father’s dead cohorts? The answer could mean everything or nothing at all.

It’s her turn again. Since her first question was easy, I bet she aims the next one at my throat.

That can wait.

“We’ve established how the Q&A will go.” I stroll toward the tack room and slip around the corner, raising my voice. “Now I’ll introduce you to the second part of our deal.”

“I didn’t agree to a second part,” she shouts back.

“You will.” I glide my fingers along buckled straps and metal bits and select a leather riding crop.

When I return to her line of sight, she spots the implement in my hand and flattens her back against the post.

“Don’t even think about it.” She flexes her fingers against the restraints.

“Do you know what this is used for?” I amble toward her, tapping the leather tongue against my leg.

“Not another step, Jarret.” She kicks out a foot and grunts against the rope. “I’m not fucking around.”

“The riding crop has many uses. Sherlock Holmes carried one as a weapon. On the ranch, we use them to discipline horses. But when you’re with me…” I pause within striking distance. “This crop will be the liberation of your vagina.”

“Oh my God.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “My vagina does not need to be liberated.”

“That so? When was the last time you had sex?”

A springy blond ringlet hangs in her face, and she blows it away with a huffed growl.

“When?” I press closer. “When was the last time Maybe Quinn spread her legs for a hard cock?”

Wide-eyed silence never felt so thrilling. I whack the crop against her bare thigh.

A sharp breath hisses past her clenched teeth. “Don’t—”

I swat her again, harder this time, landing a nice sting high on her inner thigh.

“You’re going to regret this, you sick, perverted, sick…sicko!” She goes crazy, jerking and thrashing and spitting fire.

All that does is bunch both ends of her dress toward her waist. If she wriggles much more, I’ll have an unhindered view of her nipples. Not that I mind. Except that we’re no longer alone.

The tread of boots sounds behind me, alerting me of Jake’s presence before he steps into my periphery.

“Is this consensual?” His eyes tick between me and the seething ball of fury on the post.

I swat her thigh again, returning her focus to me. “I don’t know.” Stepping up against her, I brace a hand on the pole above her head. “Is it consensual, Maybe? Do we have a deal?”

“This is not what I had in mind.” Her tits jiggle beneath the precarious slide of her dress.

“Yes or no.” I grip her chin. “My brother’s not going to leave until he knows you’re willing. Do you want the story or not?”

Her eyes slide to Jake. “You can go. I’ll deal with your brother.”

I don’t know how she thinks she’ll deal with me, but she wins a gold medal for capturing my undivided attention. Her fighting spirit is a breath of fresh air.

Jake meets my eyes and wings up a brow. “You might want to bind her—”

A jolt of unholy pain slams into my balls and swallows my guts in fire.

“—legs.”

I double-over, gasping from the kick to my groin. “I’ve got this.”

“I see that.” His footsteps retreat. “Good luck.”

Bracing my hands on my knees, I take a few moments to breathe through the throb between my legs.

When the pain subsides, I straighten and lock onto Maybe’s eyes.

The expression I find on Maybe’s face hits me harder than the foot she nailed against my balls.

Tightness around her mouth, cheeks bloodless and ashen, lashes blinking rapidly—she’s in full panic mode, shaking and terrified as if strangled by the very air around her.

The impulse to reach for her, to comfort her, pulls me toward her with my arm outstretched.