DEBT (19 page)

I felt my belly plummet as I turned and somewhat stiffly walked back toward the hall. It was stupid, girly, and immature, but that was what happened. I had no right whatsoever to feel disappointed or upset. He had been explicit when he informed me that it was just sex, mutually respectful sex, but that was it. No flowers. No love. No prince charming.

"Augh," I growled to myself, snagging my coffee cup and stomping up the staircase toward his bedroom. It was bathroom day. And, for once, I was almost happy to do it. When I was stressed or emotional, I found cleaning cathartic.

So an hour later, fingers red and sore from scrubbing, I stood up and nodded at my masterpiece, shining like it was all brand new, reeking of bleach. I exhaled a breath and felt a little of the weight on my shoulders drift away.

"Wanna talk about it?" Byron's voice said behind me, making me yelp and swirl, my hand flying to my heart.

I found him standing a foot outside the bathroom door, cocky smirk in place. "Jesus. Were you watching me?"

"Yep."

"Creep," I said, shaking my head at him as I rinsed the brush and threw it into the bucket in the cabinet under the sink.

"You didn't answer me."

"Talk about what?"

"In my experience, when a woman cleans until her fingers bleed, she's got some shit on her mind. So, do you want to talk about it?"

I did.

But at the same time, I didn't.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied. "I just got a good deep clean in. I had nothing else to do so I figured I would pay extra attention to it this time."

"Yeah, sure," he said, snorting. "Here," he said, letting it drop and holding out a piece of paper to me.

I reached for it, feeling a little flutter again. I knew it was his dessert menu. I looked down at his neat writing, feeling my brows draw together. "Is this a... homemade Pop-Tart recipe?" I asked, looking up with a disbelieving smile.

"I lived on those things as a kid. I wanna try ones without all the shit in them."

"Maybe the shit is what made them so good."

"Maybe," he agreed, rocking back on his heels slightly. "But I think yours will be better."

I felt myself blush slightly at the compliment and pretended like the recipe required all my attention. "Are you dead-set on only the original strawberry with icing ones or can I get inventive too?"

"Babe, knock your socks off," he said, giving me a warm smile. "You make it, I'll eat it."

"Nine o'clock?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Alrighty," I said, tucking the recipe away a little carelessly while, inside, I was reminding myself it was just till he was out of sight then I could straighten it and tuck it away with the other one that I had already stashed inside my purse for reasons that were somewhat unknown to me at the time.

"Have fun," he said, nodding at me then moving toward the door. "I'll be back later."

Then, well, he was gone.

At six, Ella long gone because Byron didn't plan on being home for dinner, I made my way downstairs to start baking, Prince blaring through the speakers and drowning out my own internal monologue. About an hour and a half later, I had the classic strawberry-filled, vanilla-topped tarts, complete with multi-colored sprinkles, but also brown sugar cinnamon ones, and even a very special Nutella, chocolate, and peanut butter concoction I was particularly proud of. I plated them and set to putting away all the ingredients.

And then I waited.

And waited.

And
freaking
waited.

Nine rolled into ten which rolled into eleven. At one in the morning, I was officially pissed.

True, I had no right to be. Who cared if their boss was late? It didn't mean I couldn't go up and get into bed. But, for me, it did. I wanted to see him. I wanted to give him my food I worked hard on and then let him show me how much he appreciated it. Preferably with multiple orgasms.

I actually walked around to make sure he hadn't come in while I was rocking out, but found the entire house vacant. Then, deciding I wasn't going to be
that
girl, I plated the extra tarts and moved outside to look for a guard to give them to so I didn't end up binge eating them all myself to try to drown the swirling feeling inside. I yelped to a stop when I opened the door and almost plowed into Matt.

"Honey," he said, turning, brow raised.

"Hey, Matt. Um, I, ah... made a lot of these. Want to share some with me?" I asked, almost choking on the words they sounded so needy.

To my complete and utter surprise, he shrugged, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and moved to sit down on the front step. "Sure."

"Oh... great!" I said, false-cheery, as I moved to sit down beside him, putting the plate between us.

"Are those homemade Pop-Tarts?" he asked, lips curving upward.

"Yeah, I... it was something different," I hedged. He shrugged and reached for one of my special Nutella ones, considering it for a moment before biting into it, closing his eyes on a quiet groan. "Good?" I asked, unable to stop myself from smiling with pride.

"Honey, might be sweeter than you, if that's possible."

I ducked my head to hide the slight blush at that, mad at myself for enjoying it so much, for needing the validation. "Glad you like them."

"Lonely," he said suddenly after a minute.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, looking over at him.

"You're lonely," he specified. "Up in that house with no family and no friends. That's why your plating treats and bringing them out to me." He wasn't exactly wrong. I was absolutely lonely. But it was more because I was romanticizing the encounter with Byron, doing exactly what he warned me not to do.

"I guess," I allowed.

"I'm on, you ever need someone to feed, talk to, or just sit next to, I'm right here. Might not be the most talkative company, but I'm company. Okay?"

"Oka..." I started, but was cut off by the sound of the gates sliding open and Byron's car purring up right in front of us. The car barely stopped before he was out of it, slammed the door, and around the hood. Everything about him seemed agitated, borderline angry. It was in the set to his shoulders, the tightness to his mouth, the ticking in his jaw.

"Those mine?" he barked, gesturing toward the plate.

I felt Matt's eyes on me and looked over at him because, quite frankly, I couldn't quite meet Byron's eyes. "Somebody's in trouble," he said, voice low, eyes dancing a little at the idea of mischief and I saw that, maybe, I had picked the wrong guy on the estate to get involved with. While Matt would never be able to read me as well as Byron, he was safer. He was the smarter choice. He was the least likely to rip me apart before he was done with me.

"Prudence," Byron clipped, using the hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar voice.

"They're extras," I supplied, forcing myself to lift my head and meet his eye.

"Are they now?"

"I just said they were," I said, my tone snippy.

"Well, this is sufficiently awkward," Matt cut in, standing and re-buttoning his jacket.

"Probably good to get back to work," Byron said, disapproval plain in his voice.

Matt seemed completely unaffected though, and gave me a small smile. "Thanks for the sweets, honey," he said, chucking me under the chin and moving away, giving Byron a shameless chin-jerk as he went.

I watched his back for a long minute until it was out of sight, wanting any excuse I had to not look at Byron whose body was radiating anger. "He wants to fuck you," he declared as soon as my eyes met his.

"So?" I asked.

"So you're coming out here all sad-eyes with a plate full of desserts and leading him on."

"I don't have sad eyes," I said, reaching for the plate and standing.

"Oh, fuck off..." he said, giving me a humorless smile.

And, well, I wasn't really in the mood to face off with him right then. I turned and flew into the house, going straight to the kitchen to put the plate down, planning to head back upstairs and lock myself into my room until I got myself under control.

Planning to.

Meaning I didn't get the chance.

This was mainly because as soon as I put the plate down, Byron was behind me, using the whole of his body to pin me against the counter. One of his arms folded across my belly, the other went up to yank my hair until my ear was near his mouth. "I don't do games, Prue."

"I'm not playing games, Byron," I snapped back, wincing at the smarting in my scalp until I felt his other arm move downward and cup my sex.

"Then explain the shit with Matt."

"There was no shit with Matt. I wanted..." I shut my mouth tight, having almost admitted something I knew was dangerous to.

"You wanted what?"

I swallowed hard, closing my eyes tight as if it would make the admission any less embarrassing. "I wanted someone to talk to."

"About?"

"Anything. I was..." I started, feeling his fingers curl and hit my clit.

"You were what?"

"Lonely," I admitted, feeling another layer get sliced off of me.

Byron paused for a second. "Are you lonely now?"

"No," I said, exhaling hard as my hips moved against his palm.

He didn't say anything in response, just released my hair and my sex and both hands moved to the waistband of my jeans, making short work of the button and zip then yanking them and my panties roughly down my legs. "Step out," he demanded, taking a step back. I kicked out of the legs and turned because he had moved back several feet. "Shirt and bra too," he instructed as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.

"Byron, I..." I started, shaking my head a little.

"Shirt and bra," he said more firmly as his hands went to his button and his zip then reached inside to pull his cock out and slip on a condom. "Now, Prue."

My sex clenched hard, reminding me once again that my body was a traitor that my mind wasn't strong enough to fight. I moved to pull my shirt off and reached behind me for my clasps, watching him as he walked toward me. Except, that wasn't quite right. He
stalked
toward me, stopping when our feet touched, then sliding his hand down my side until he snagged my knee, grabbing it, and hauling it up, giving himself access to the very core of me. His other hand grabbed his cock and moved it to stroke up and down my almost embarrassingly slick cleft.

"Byron, I..." I started, shaking my head a little, not sure what I was about to say. Apologize? For what? Technically I hadn't done anything wrong.

"No," he said, eyes on me. "You wanted someone to talk to, you did. Now I am going to demand you keep that pretty mouth of yours shut."

"What..."

"I mean that I am going to fuck you, right here in this kitchen. Right here in this very spot. And if you so much as gasp, I am not going to let you come. Got me?"

Not so much as gasp?

How the hell was I supposed to pull that off?

With him, I had been embarrassingly loud, uninhibited, practically wanton. And he wanted me to be silent?

"You want my cock, babe, those are the rules this time."

"But what..."

"No buts. I'm going to fuck you and you're going to be silent. Got me?" he asked, the head of his cock hitting my clit and making me let out a small whimper.

I was pretty sure I wasn't going to be allowed to come.

But then his cock slid down my slit and pressed inside me, filling me to the hilt. My mouth opened as he stretched me; his brow raised as a reminder to be silent. I didn't doubt for a minute he would follow through on his threat. I exhaled slowly, trying to focus through the clawing need inside me, making me rock against him as he stilled inside me.

"I asked if you got me?"

I nodded my head.

And then he was fucking me. Hard, each thrust shifting my body upward several inches as he filled me completely, eyes intent on my face. I sucked in air greedily to try to distract myself from moaning as his cock continued its relentless torture, driving me up fast, knowing exactly what he was doing to me.

My hands curled hard into his biceps as his hand urged my leg around his waist before releasing it and settling it on the side of my neck. His other hand slid down between us, pressing into my clit as his thrusts got more frantic, more demanding.

At the contact, I sucked in air hard, so hard that it was audible, almost a gasp.

"Careful," he warned, fingers digging into my neck a little. "That was close."

With that, I drew in another shaky breath, leaning forward and burying my face in his neck, pressing my lips hard against his skin to muffle any sounds, my arms going tight, almost crushing, around his neck. His free arm traveled down my back, grabbing my ass, then slapping it hard, making my fingers dig into his neck to keep from crying out. As if sensing the battle, his hand pulled back, swung out, and landed harder. Then again, even harder. Until I was biting my lip hard, my entire body taut as a bow trying to keep silent.