I never set out on this cattle drive to bend for any man.

Proud as a wild mustang, I scouted ahead under that blistering prairie sun, proving my grit to every grizzled hand who smirked at a woman riding point. Independence was my armor. My rifle. My everything.

Then he claimed the herd as his kingdom. This gruff solitary who growls orders like thunder rolling over the plains, his rough hands corralling chaos with a stare that pins you cold. I bucked him from day one. Mouthy. Defiant. Daring him to try reining me in.

He did. Dragged me into the dim supply tent after I cut the trail too reckless. Skirt hiked, bare thighs draped over his knee, that thick leather belt cracking down until my skin burned raw and tears mixed with sweat. I cursed him blue. Clawed the dirt. But between strokes, shame twisted into a wicked throb, his palm soothing the blaze like he owned every hidden ache.

Nights blurred after that. Sweat-slicked by the shadowed trough, bodies heaving as he bent me double and filled me deep. Storm-soaked in that cave, limbs tangled while he growled possession into my ear. Each correction perverts his command into obsession. I crave the snap of that strap now, the way it strips my bravado bare. Makes surrender feel like flying.

Yet one whisper to the crew, and I'm done. Laughed off the drive, my hard-won respect dust in the wind. This man who straps me raw could shatter the self I fought for. Or save me from the loneliness gnawing inside. How long before I beg for his belt without the fight?