DEBT (18 page)

He fucked me like it was all there was in the world, like he wouldn't want to be doing anything else. His eyes stayed on my face, creating intimacy even with the borderline brutal sex I never thought I would enjoy, his keen eyes taking in every nuance, his ears hearing each uncertain then increasingly delighted sound of pain and pleasure as his cock promised not only another overpowering orgasm, but the kind of ache that I would be feeling for days.

Just as I felt the tight clench that proceeded an orgasm, his cock was out of me. I heard a loud groan and was shocked to realize it came from me. Byron's lips tipped up for a second at it as his hands released my nipples, leaving them feeling achy and swollen from the rough attention. His hands sank into my hips and unceremoniously tossed me onto my stomach, his legs trapping both of mine, his hand pressing hard into the center of my back to stop the motion when I tried to rise up. His cock pressed against me, but didn't penetrate, making the pulsing need build inside and I felt myself wiggle against him, looking for some relief. "Put your arm underneath you and stroke your clit," he demanded, making me blush again. But, thankfully, he couldn't see. I'd never, ever, touched myself in front of a man before. The idea of it made me want to curl up under a blanket and never come out again. But when Byron St. James demanded something like that in his sex-rough voice, was there really any way to deny him? I wasn't sure. All I knew was I couldn't find one. So my hand moved underneath my body and pressed between my legs, finding the sensitive, swollen bud of my clit and moving against it. The contact making me jump slightly and Byron rewarded me with a slight slap to my ass. "You can scream into that pillow all you want. No one will hear you."

And with that, he thrust deep again. He didn't fuck me hard that time, just fast, his cock pushing inside me at a speed that seemed to make it impossible for me to catch my breath as his cock managed to rub over my G-spot as my own fingers brushed my clit, the weight of my body making the pressure intense and the pleasure even more so. Byron's hand slipped beneath me as well to, I thought, help hurry the process of my orgasm. But that wasn't the case. I learned when I lost his hand and felt his thumb press up against my ass, not penetrating, just creating pressure. And I realized he was using my wetness to lube up his finger.

There was something then akin to uncertainty, to the slightest hint of fear.

As if sensing it, Byron's finger started pulsing against my ass as his cock slowed, got softer, sweeter, almost loving inside me. "You said however far I want to take it, babe. But this is always at your tempo," he told me, his voice matching the gentleness in his thrusts. "If it's a limit, say so. If you need time, say it. You need it slow, say that. Got it?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my finger to work my clit again, to get my body to calm down. Because as his finger kept up its pulsating teasing and he moved inside me in a way that made me almost feel emotional, I wasn't sure if it was a limit. I wasn't sure if I needed time. I didn't even know if I needed it slow. All I knew was I needed more of him. I needed whatever he could give me.

"It's okay," I said, my voice a strange croaking imitation of itself.

"Don't placate me," he warned, but given that it was because he was worried I was pressuring myself into something I didn't want, I was okay with his bossiness for a change.

"I'm not. I want to try it," I said, my voice even quieter than it had been before.

But judging by the low rumbling growl in his chest again, I knew he heard. And I knew he liked it.

Two strokes later, I felt his thumb press inside me, the sensation foreign and unusual enough to make me arch up slightly, but not painful or gross like I had been expecting. Just new. Just different.

And as soon as his thumb was fully inside me, that was it. His cock kept rocking into me, but his finger didn't thrust, just filled me, just created a different kind of pressure, an unknown kind of pleasure. As my finger started working my clit again, all feelings of embarrassment of him having a finger in my ass disappeared in the almost overwhelming need for an end to the torment, to give into the orgasm that felt like it was going to rip me apart. My finger rubbed, his cock rocked, and then it did. It tore through my body, making me cry out louder than I thought I was capable of as the first hard pulsations started to rip through me. Then and only then did his thumb start thrusting as his cock continued to as well, creating an unknown, unexpected, completely mind-numbing kind of pleasure that had me crying out his name over and over as the waves kept crashing.

I came down on a strangled whimper, blinking away the tears that had gathered in my eyes as I lost Byron's finger and his hands grabbed my ass as he buried deep, cursing and saying my name as he came.

My body started shuddering with aftershocks as I lay there, taking deep breaths and closing my eyes tight until the absolutely absurd urge to cry went away.

Byron slowly slid out of me and the bed shifted slightly as he climbed off of it. I slitted my eyes slightly to watch him walk over toward the teensy kitchenette. He opened a cabinet and tossed the condom, presumably, into a hidden garbage, then washed his hands before turning and coming back toward the bed. And me.

To be perfectly honest, I had been mostly expecting him to grab his clothes, shrug into his dry pants, and leave me there.

But in reality, he lay down next to me on his side, reaching out and pushing my shoulder until he rolled me onto my side facing him as well. His hand settled on the side of my cheek and I pressed my eyes closed tighter.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice quiet. I swallowed hard and shook my head. I wasn't ready yet. I needed a minute. I needed to get myself fully together. "Prue, look at me," he said again, a bit of pleading leaking into his voice and that was perhaps the only thing that could have gotten my eyes to open. They did, slowly, and only because I was pretty sure the tears were all blinked away. But apparently I was wrong because one slipped down only to be caught by the edge of one of his fingers. His face was soft as he watched me. "Look," he started, tone a bit more serious. It was almost his business-phone-call voice. "Once wasn't enough. So if it wasn't enough for you, either, we are going to have a repeat. Likely multiple ones. I like to push limits. It gets intense. When things get intense sexually with women, they can get emotional. It's not a big deal. It doesn't mean shit. You don't need to analyze it to fucking death. It just is. There's no reason to try to keep it all in like you think you need to. You need to cry, cry. I won't think anything less of you. You need to curl up next to me until the aftershocks subside, fine. Fucking is only fun if you get whatever aftercare you need. Otherwise, it's me using you. Some women are into that. You're not one of those women. I don't expect or need you to be. I take what I need; you need to take what you need too. And that doesn't just mean an orgasm or two. We clear?"

I'd never heard anything out of any man that was, in a weird way, one of the nicest things I had ever heard. Not only that, but it was very succinct, to the point, and unapologetically honest. I found I liked that about Byron. I, as a rule, generally believed in social graces. I believed in biting your tongue and thinking your thoughts through. I believed in curving the truth if need be. Byron didn't. I never thought I would like that about a person. Especially when it made some things he said come off rude, cocky, condescending, or downright nasty. But it was
real.
You didn't need to beg for clarity with him. You didn't need to think yourself half-crazy trying to figure out his motives, his wants, his needs, his opinions. Because he simply told you with no muss, no fuss, no frill, no chaser to take away the sting.

It was a kind of communication I wasn't familiar with. But I found I really liked.

"We're clear," I said after a second, when I trusted my voice again.

"You want to keep this up?"

Hell yes I did. I felt like I owed it to myself to explore it, to feel the things he made me feel, not just physically either. Maybe that was stupid. Maybe it was dangerous for me in many ways. But I didn't care. For once in my life, I wanted to say to hell with the consequences and jump off the cliff. "Yes."

"You gonna stop trying to act like you can fool me with the stiff-upper-lip act? 'Cause, babe, if you haven't figured it out by now, you can't fucking fool me. And you aren't going to impress me with your ability to repress yourself. So if we fuck and you need to cry or laugh or snuggle up or take a bath and some space from me, say it. Okay?" I felt my head nodding, not quite able to form words while I battled the strange warm feeling I felt blooming in my belly and spreading outward until it seemed to unfold over my entire chest. "So what do you need right now?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. I wasn't used to being asked. The men I had been with had never been deliberately inconsiderate about sex, but they hadn't gone out of their way to ask what I might need from them after. If anything, they tended to get rid of the condom then go to sleep. Which, as I thought about it, was really sad.

He shrugged a little. "You need space? Want me to leave?"

"No," I said, a little too quickly, almost a bit frantically.

He noticed too because, well, he noticed everything. His lips tipped up a little. "Alright," he said, rolling onto his back and reaching for me, hauling me up and onto his chest. "How about this? This good?"

Good wasn't the right word. The second I settled onto his chest and felt his arm wrap around me, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath my ear, his skin warm, his body a comforting kind of safe, I knew I was in trouble. Because
he
and the feelings I was having around him spelled out just that in bright, bold, unavoidable letters.

And as I felt him start to stroke his fingers through my drying hair, I had the strong knowledge that he was going to hurt me more than anyone else ever had before.

But I somehow forced those thoughts away enough to relax.

Without thinking it was possible, I drifted off to sleep.

THIRTEEN

Prue

I woke up alone and disoriented. I shot up, realizing I was completely naked in an unfamiliar room, the sun streaming in through the sheer-covered windows. Then it slowly came back to me: the hot tub, Byron, the cabana, the sex, the snuggling after. I had passed out on him! More than that, but he had sneaked out without me having noticed. I reached out and touched the spot next to me, finding it cool. He had been gone for a while.

I didn't bother looking around seeing as there was literally nowhere for him to hide out.

I sat up, immediately going toward the cabinet where the towels were stacked and wrapping one around my naked body, noticing soreness in places I hadn't been sore in a long time, or ever. When I turned, I noticed a colorful pile on the small counter in the kitchenette. I walked over to find my still-damp clothes from the night before, neatly folded. But beside them, a pile of dry, fresh clothes. My clothes. From my closet. There was a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, a white button-up, bra, panties, and a pair of white flats. I reached for them, saying a silent prayer that Byron was the one to bring them in instead of farming the task out. How the hell had I slept through someone coming and going?

Dressed, I wrapped up my wet clothes in the towel and made my way back toward the house, feeling off-kilter because I had no idea what time of day it was and if anyone was milling around to see me doing my sort-of walk of shame. I went in the back door and slipped right into the laundry room, putting my clothes and towel in a basket because the machines were already in use. I moved back into the hall, ducking into the kitchen and finding Ella there, steadily chopping something for, I presumed, lunch. A glance at the clock on the stove told me it was after ten.

Ten.

I never slept to ten. Ever.

"You feeling alright, sweetheart?" Ella asked, her back to me as I moved toward the coffee pot.

"Ah, yeah..." I said, unsure why she was asking.

"Byron said you were sleeping in and not to disturb you. I figured you must not be feeling well."

"Oh, no. I'm fine. I was just... tired," I half-lied. "Did he get his coffee yet today?" I asked as I reached for another mug.

"Three hours ago."

Three hours ago.

So he must have left me sometime before seven.

"I'll bring him a fresh cup," I said, distractedly, as I moved back toward the hallway. He left me before seven? I wasn't sure if I was supposed to feel almost a little upset about that fact. Was he ashamed to be caught with me? Or was he maybe being considerate in letting me keep the affair between the two of us?

I let myself into his office after placing my own cup on a cabinet in the hall, eyes landing on him immediately as I walked in, taking in the crisp, clean suit and the freshly-shaved face. He was on the phone, legs propped up on the desk like I had never seen them before. Relaxed, I realized. I wasn't sure I had ever seen him look so relaxed at work. Or maybe ever.

Great. He was relaxed.

I felt all kinds of antsy.

Not that that was abnormal for me, but still.

I placed his cup and didn't get so much as a glance.