Shane Maguire

Shane had given you a head start.

Five minutes. Long enough to disappear between the towering pines, but not long enough to escape a man who could follow broken twigs and disturbed earth as easily as most people followed a marked trail. The rules were already understood: you would run, he would hunt, and if he caught you, he could claim his prize.

You barely made it beyond the creek.

The forest had gone unnervingly quiet around you when Shane finally appeared between the trees. His blond hair was damp with sweat, hazel eyes dark and predatory as they settled on you. He wasn’t winded. If anything, he looked pleased as though he had been deliberately driving you toward this exact clearing.

“Run, little doe.”

You turned before he finished speaking.

Branches clawed at your clothing as you fled, the sound of his pursuit crashing through the undergrowth behind you. Shane could have caught you sooner. You knew that. He stayed close enough to keep you frightened, letting you hear his boots and rough breathing until panic and excitement became indistinguishable.

Then his arm hooked around your waist.

The force of the tackle sent you both tumbling into the leaves, Shane twisting beneath you for the impact before immediately rolling you onto your stomach. His weight covered you from behind, one hand capturing both wrists above your head while his knee forced its way between your thighs.

“There you are,” he breathed against your ear.

Both of you were sweating now, chests heaving from the chase. Shane pressed his hips firmly against you, grinding just enough to reveal how thoroughly watching you run had affected him. The movement was slow, almost cruel, nothing like the animalistic hunger sharpening his voice.

“You knew what I’d do when I caught you.”

His free hand traveled down your body, gripping your hip hard enough to hold you exactly where he wanted you. Leaves clung to your clothes and hair, but Shane didn’t seem to care. The forest floor was good enough for what he intended to do with his captured prey.

Every attempt to squirm only made his breathing grow rougher.

The chase had awakened something primitive inside him a territorial need to pin you beneath his body, push your clothes aside, and mount his little doe right where he had finally run her down. He rocked against you again, harder this time, his mouth brushing the curve of your ear.

The rules had been established before you ran.

If you reached the old fire lookout before Shane caught you, he owed you breakfast in bed for the rest of the week. If he caught you first, he got to carry you back to the cabin and fuck his captured little doe however he wanted—with the boundaries and signals you had agreed upon beforehand.

You had deliberately chosen a thin shirt and a pair of tiny shorts for the game. They were comfortable enough to run in and would give Shane easy access if or when he caught you.

You never made it beyond the creek.

Shane had allowed you to hear him approaching the deliberate snap of a branch, the low whistle drifting between the trees because frightening his prey was part of the game. He could have caught you much earlier. Instead, he followed at a patient pace, letting you believe every sudden turn might finally lose him.

Then an arm locked around your waist and lifted you cleanly from the ground.

You squealed as Shane carried you back through the woods, thrown over his shoulder like something he had hunted and claimed. One broad hand rested across the backs of your bare thighs, occasionally sliding beneath the hem of your shorts whenever you squirmed against him.

“Caught you, little doe,” he murmured, giving you an affectionate swat. “You remember what that means.”

The cabin door shut behind him, sealing out the cold evening air. Shane crossed directly to the heavy wooden table where he usually cleaned his rifles and studied maps of the park. Tonight, he had cleared it in advance.

He lowered you onto your back across its surface, one hand supporting your head until it rested safely against the wood. Under the harsh overhead light, Shane arranged his captured doe exactly as he wanted her, your arms stretched above your head, your legs hanging over opposite sides of the table, and his body positioned between them.

He secured your wrists with the soft restraints you had selected together, carefully checking their tightness before allowing his calloused hands to travel down your raised arms. His touch passed over your shoulders, sides, waist, and hips in a slow, methodical inspection.

A faint scrape marked one knee. Dirt streaked your thighs beneath the short hem. Your chest still rose and fell rapidly from the chase, and the position had caused your shorts to ride even higher around your hips.

Shane examined every inch as though assessing the condition of something precious he had finally trapped.

“There she is,” he said quietly. “My pretty little prize.”

He bent over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other continued its unhurried inspection. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shorts, tracing the sensitive inside of your thigh before deliberately spreading your legs wider beneath the light.

His hazel eyes followed the movement of his hand, dark with quiet satisfaction. For all the hunger tightening his expression, he did not immediately claim his reward. He simply stood between your open thighs and admired his little doe laid out helplessly across his table.

“Look at you,” Shane murmured, hooking one finger beneath the leg of your shorts. “All spread out for me after making me chase you through half the damn forest.”