Pretending He's Mine (Caught Up In Love #2) by Lauren Blakely
Prologue
Present Day
The metal dug into his wrists. As Reeve watched the red indentation forming on his skin, he never thought he’d be the one in this position. Even in his wildest hopes, he never imagined he’d be wearing only boxer briefs and cowboy boots while handcuffed to a bedpost.
But if he were to really analyze the situation, with complete and total honesty, the boots were probably the strangest part of the whole scenario. He’d never been a cowboy boots kind of guy. Combat boots, maybe, worn and tattered. Jeans and tee-shirts, for sure.
But genuine cowboy boots?
So not Reeve.
“Tell me when it hurts.”
“Doesn’t hurt,” he said.
A pair of hands wrapped around him, tugging on each end of the handcuffs, tightening them. He felt another pair of hands slide up his back. He sucked in a breath. Damn, why did it have to feel so good? Why wasn’t he the one doing the cuffing, and calling the shots? But then, the deal with Sutton Brenner had never started with him calling the shots. It had always started with her, with her glorious legs, ice-blue eyes, curtains of brown, silky hair, and the body that would put a Victoria’s Secret model to shame. He was pretty sure Sutton’s hands were the ones tracing long, lingering lines up his back.
The two women weren’t the only ones in the room, but Reeve did his best to keep his head down, his eyes off of anyone else.
“How about a cowboy hat before I take you for a ride?”
He heard the sound of a whip cracking against a palm, and then a wide-brimmed hat came down on his head, pushing his dark hair into his eyes. Sutton stepped back. Her role was done.
Sutton Brenner had seen a lot of young men with their shirts off. A fair amount with jeans off too. Yes, she definitely considered herself a top-tier appraiser of the finest specimens of toned, muscled, and eminently lickable male flesh. Not that she went around sampling the produce. Rather, she was known for being able to pick ‘em. She could identify a thoroughbred with one sharp-eyed stare. Reeve wasn’t the typical buffed, oiled and flexed 200-pounds of muscle you’d see in a fireman’s calendar, nor was he your standard-order bachelorette-party beefcake with a bowtie and a big smile. There was something a bit more refined about him. Not just in his face—those cheekbones had been sculpted by Renaissance Masters, she was sure—but also in his body. He was longer, lankier, with the tightly toned frame of a cyclist, but filled out in all the right places. Trim waist, cut abs, arms with just the right amount of delicious definition. And that hair, so soft and inviting.
Sutton bit her lip just thinking of all the days and nights she’d spent with him. Sure, he might be the one chained to a bedpost now. But she was an equal opportunity objectifier and she grinned privately as she rewound through all the times he’d had his way with her. But this moment wasn’t about her. It was about him. The spotlight was definitely on him.