Chapter 5
HARPER
H arper was going to get herself killed—or screwed into submission with the kind of discipline that made her toes curl just thinking about it.
Possibly both, depending on how long she kept pushing Reed Malone.
She had to be honest with herself—she was going to keep pushing.
Poking the wolf with a sharp stick was practically in her DNA.
But Reed? Reed didn’t bluff. He didn’t posture.
He waited, measured, and struck when it counted.
And some twisted part of her wanted to know exactly how hard he'd strike when she gave him reason.
She’d only been at his estate for six hours, and already she’d tested three locked doors just to see if his security matched his arrogance, borrowed a burner phone from a kitchen drawer to check for surveillance gaps, and slipped out onto a second-story balcony with an alarmed latch she’d disabled using a hairpin she'd tucked in her braid.
Every step had been deliberate, designed not just to gather intel—but to provoke.
If Reed Malone wanted control, she was going to make damn sure he had to earn it.
Honestly, it had been way too easy. And that unsettled her more than she’d expected.
It wasn’t just the lack of resistance that bothered her—it was the thrill.
The clean, sharp hit of triumph that pulsed through her chest when each door gave way, when she felt him closing in.
Like she’d summoned the storm on purpose.
Like part of her wanted to be caught. That was the part she couldn’t quite explain to herself—and refused to admit to anyone else.
She didn’t even flinch when the footsteps behind her stopped—heavy, measured, and far too deliberate to be anyone but Reed.
The sound of him approaching was like thunder decked out in leather, and it tightened something low in her belly.
She knew that cadence now. Calculated. Controlled.
A man used to making people tremble just by walking into a room.
But Harper didn’t tremble. She braced. She waited.
Because if he was going to make a move, she wanted to feel every bit of it coming.
“Want to explain what you’re doing, little thief?” His voice was all gravel and command.
She turned slowly, one eyebrow arched. “Fresh air.”
“You tripped the sensor in the east hallway. And that phone you took? Has a tracer in it.”
Harper grinned. “So you found me. Congratulations.”
Reed stepped closer, and her pulse kicked hard.
There was a dangerous stillness about him—composed, but humming with restrained power she was beginning to crave.
He wore worn jeans that hugged his hips with criminal intent and a dark henley stretched across his chest and arms like a challenge.
The fabric clung in all the right places, outlining the hard planes of muscle, the silent strength that made her mouth go dry.
Everything about him whispered of power, barely restrained—and the promise of what might happen if she pushed him just a little further.
He didn't touch her. Not yet. Just stood there, eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her lungs forget how to work. Every second stretched, thick with tension, until the quiet wasn’t quiet at all—it was a pressure, a grip, a hand at her throat made of nothing but heat and anticipation.
She felt it crawl up her spine, anchoring low and fierce in her belly.
His silence wasn’t passive. His silence, precise and loaded like a blade at her neck, reminded her how sharp it could be without cutting.
“You want to play games, Harper?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Games suggest rules. You haven’t given me any.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He stepped in until she had to tilt her head to hold his gaze. “I gave you one rule. Stay out of what isn’t yours. You broke it.”
“Technically, I borrowed it.”
“You stole it.”
She licked her lips, just to see if he’d track the movement. He did.
Then he turned on his heel. “Come with me.”
The room he took her to was warm and dimly lit—bare wood floors that creaked faintly beneath their steps, iron wall hooks arranged with unsettling precision, and a padded bench in the center that looked more like an altar than furniture.
The air smelled faintly of leather and something darker—anticipation, maybe.
Every detail felt intentional, from the lack of windows to the soft, amber glow that left shadows in all the right places.
No cameras. No mirrors. No audience. Just her and him, stripped of pretense and framed by silence thick enough to bite through.
She stopped in the doorway. “You have a fully equipped private playroom in your house?”
"Doesn't everyone?" He asked, as if he truly believed everyone did. "But I didn't bring you here to play. This is about teaching you a lesson."
He stepped behind her, the heat of his body brushing her back, and closed the door with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have in the weighted silence.
It was the kind of sound that marked a line—the shift from warning to consequence.
She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just felt him there, a wall of heat and control, steady as gravity and just as inescapable.
“Strip,” he said, voice low and edged with steel.
Not cold, not cruel—just absolute. The kind of tone that brooked no argument but didn’t need to raise itself to be obeyed.
She turned to face him and his eyes locked on hers, unreadable, but his presence pressed down like a hand at her spine, daring her to disobey.
Her breath hitched, but she stood straighter. “That’s a hell of an opening move, cowboy.”
Reed came closer, crowding her space. “Safe word is red. You’re clean?”
“Yes. Birth control implant.”
“And this is consensual?”
“You’re not forcing me,” she said. “I’m choosing this.”
“But you’re holding something back.”
She flashed him a mischievous grin. “I always do.”
He nodded once. “Then I’ll take what I can. And earn the rest.”
Being naked over-his-knee was more intimate than she expected—uncomfortably so.
It wasn’t about punishment. It was about ownership, proximity, the way her skin prickled under the heat of his body as much as the sting of his hand.
.. and every time it landed, it stung and then somehow transformed into something very, very close to arousal.
His palm came down hard, a sharp snap of sensation that bloomed hot across her skin.
Then again. And again. Each strike coaxed heat, not just across her backside, but radiating out through her thighs, her chest, her clenched jaw.
She gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the sounds he wanted, even as her body started to betray her—tingling, reacting, softening in the worst possible ways.
Pain shouldn’t feel like this. She wasn't a pain slut; she wasn't even a masochist. It shouldn’t confuse her brain or make her hips shift like they had a mind of their own. But it did. And the realization infuriated her almost as much as it thrilled.
A whimper slipped free on the sixth strike. Her hips jerked. Her body betrayed her.
Reed leaned over and murmured low in her ear, “There’s my girl.”
He stroked a hand down her spine, slow and firm, anchoring her in the aftermath of sensation.
Her skin twitched under his palm, muscles taut, nerves blazing.
When his fingers dipped lower, they ghosted just over the seam of her thighs—teasing, maddening, deliberate.
He didn’t penetrate, didn’t rush. Just hovered there, trailing featherlight circles that made her shudder.
Her aching, needy body was wound so tight that she wanted to scream.
Molten heat filled her, her slickness undeniable and humiliating.
Her body betrayed every lie her mouth wanted to tell.
He dragged a knuckle through the wetness, slow and reverent, then brought it back up to brush against her inner thigh like a threat.
Her breath stuttered, shame and want tangling in her throat.
She hated how badly she wanted more—and how perfectly he knew it.
“You’re soaking wet, Harper.”
“Go to hell,” she gasped.
He chuckled. “That, little thief, is not your safe word.”
He didn’t push further. Just circled his palm over her backside, slow and steady, rubbing warmth into the sting he’d left behind.
His touch wasn’t apologetic—it was possessive, claiming her with every pass, grounding her even as her skin still burned.
Each glide of his hand ignited heat that lodged deep within, blurring the line between ache and hunger.
His every palm press branded her, reminding her he had seen, taken, and now owned her in this maddening, humiliating, and intoxicating way.
A warning. A promise. And beneath it all, an unspoken vow: he wasn’t done. Not even close.
She hated how much she needed it—how her breath came in shallow bursts, each inhale shaky, as if her lungs didn’t trust her anymore.
Her pulse pounded at her temples, hot and insistent.
The ache he stirred didn’t fade with the sting; it expanded through her like wildfire, a hunger she couldn’t reason with.
It was shameful, maddening—and completely overwhelming. Even so, she wanted more.
Her skin buzzed with leftover adrenaline, her body thrumming with anticipation she couldn’t stuff down.
How the ache he stirred didn’t fade with the sting, but bloomed wider, deeper, into something molten and greedy.
It gnawed at her pride, tangled with every instinct that told her to pull away, to shield herself.
But her body leaned into it, into him, with a desperation that felt as raw as it was maddening.
Every nerve lit up in betrayal, begging for more of what she shouldn’t crave and couldn’t seem to deny.
When he helped her to her feet, she didn’t look at him.
Her legs wobbled slightly, and before she could recover her balance, he scooped her up and settled onto the padded bench, pulling her into his lap like she weighed nothing.
She tensed at first—out of pride, out of instinct—but then his arms wrapped around her with quiet strength, anchoring her again.
One large hand cradled the back of her head, guiding it gently to rest against his broad shoulder.
His scent—clean skin, worn leather, and something unmistakably him—settled over her like a second blanket.
For a long moment, he just held her. No commands, no games, no pressure.
Just warmth. Just presence. And the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, thudding like a metronome she hadn’t realized she needed.
She hated how safe it felt—even more, how naturally she gave in to it.
But she didn’t run either. Didn’t flinch when he held her closer, didn’t pull away when his fingers stroked gently through her hair.
Her body stayed tense for another breath, two—but then something inside her let go.
Just a little. Just enough. She let herself lean into him, let the heat of his chest seep into her bones.
And when his lips brushed her temple—soft, steady, unassuming—she didn’t pretend it didn’t matter.
And when he tipped her chin up with two fingers, his voice was gentler than she expected.
“Next time you need to test me,” he said, “do it with your words. Not your escape skills.”
She swallowed hard. Her mind was a mess of scrambled signals—anger, heat, shame, longing.
Everything he’d done, every way her body had responded, was still echoing under her skin.
She didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know how to sort the hunger from the humiliation, the safety from the control.
Her chest felt too tight, like her ribs were trying to hold in something too big and wild.
And worse—part of her didn’t want to sort it.
Part of her wanted to sink into the confusion and let him keep taking control, because it was easier than untangling the truth.
“You’re still under my protection. Still mine to command. But if you need to fight, do it out loud. I can take it.”
She said nothing. Her thoughts were too loud, too tangled to untie.
One part of her screamed she was losing herself—that letting him in, even like this, was a mistake she couldn’t afford.
Another part whispered that it had never felt this good to be seen, to be touched, to be held without being broken.
She tried to rationalize it: maybe it was just adrenaline, maybe it was the heat of the moment, maybe it meant nothing at all.
But her heart wasn’t listening to logic.
Deep down, where she kept her oldest fears and her sharpest truths, something stirred—something that looked suspiciously like wanting more, crashing into each other with the weight of everything she wasn’t ready to feel.
How was she supposed to reconcile the sharp, humiliating pleasure of being mastered with the soft safety of being held?
Her mind spun, trying to label it, categorize it, pin it down like a butterfly in glass—but nothing fit.
It was infuriating. And terrifying. And underneath it all, deeply, achingly real.
But the next time his hand brushed hers, she didn’t pull away.
Her fingers twitched—just a reflex, she told herself—but they stayed warm against his.
Holding the contact. Choosing it. And in that stubborn, silent touch, she admitted what her pride refused to say out loud: this wasn’t over.
Not for her. Not for him. Something had started in that room—and she was already half-afraid she’d let it finish her.