DEBT (26 page)

"Babe..."

"I mean, if it hurts this much coming from a woman wearing six inch stilettos, I can't imagine..."

"Prue..."

"And I totally just fell
up
the stairs. That's supposed to be like good luck or a wedding or something like that, right?"

"Baby," he said, his voice liquid as he knelt in front of me. It was the first time he had ever called me that and it effectively shut up whatever weird, rambling craziness I was spouting to cover my own hurt and confusion. "Look at me," he said, but it was more of a question and his hand didn't grab my chin like it usually did to force me to comply to the demand. And, well, when he asked like that, I was helpless but to do as requested. My face lifted to find him watching me, his face soft, his lips parted slightly. "Fuck," he said, raising his hand to place on my stinging, hot-feeling cheek.

"Bad?" I asked, pretty sure it was an impressive shade of red.

"It'll go down in an hour or so," he promised.

"Byron," I asked, the craziness of it all making me a little bold, "what was she doing here?"

"She wanted to go another round," he answered immediately, not even a thought to evasions or lies.

"Another round?"

"She wanted to fuck again."

"Right," I said, nodding tightly, feeling his words confirm the twisting feeling of my stomach.

"Babe," he said, ducking his head a little to catch my eyes again. "No. Hell fucking no. I didn't touch her. I didn't even think about touching her. When I said I didn't want to share you, I meant that I wasn't going out and fucking anyone else either."

"You expect me to believe that she just came here, completely unbidden, and threw herself at you?"

"Believe it or not, it's the truth," he said, shrugging. "You remember in the cabana when I told you that there are some women who like to be used?"

"Yeah," I agreed because I did remember that. Along with just about every other word he had ever uttered.

"Lyla is one of those women. She gets off on the degradation. And I might be fine with that for a night, doing whatever the fuck I want no matter how deprave and knowing she wouldn't only get off on it, but demand more abuse. Yeah. It was an alright time. But I'm not into that all the time. I want someone who wants to explore with me. Mutually. And I certainly don't like that psycho chick bullshit she pulled. I never gave Lyla another thought after that night."

"You talked to her at the party," I reminded him, remembering the wave of jealousy I'd felt.

"She works at Marion's. Marion was in the group. She got a couple words in. That was it."

"Why were you yelling at her? You never yell."

"Rarely. Only when it's warranted. Like I said, I'm not into the psycho chick bullshit and when she came in and sat on my desk and spread her legs, trying to pull me toward her snatch? Fuck no. Not having that. I got mad. I yelled. Case closed."

I was pretty sure I flinched at the bitingly honest relaying of events, the image popping into my head unbidden, wholly unwanted, but in bright, perfect crispness. And while it was crass and upsetting, it was yet more proof of the fact that I could trust Byron to be honest with me. Brutally so.

"Bitch shouldn't put her hands on what's mine," he said, sounding like he was talking to himself.

But I heard, and my poor, battered, achy heart lit up in my chest like the fourth of freaking July. "Yours?" I choked out, needing confirmation that I wasn't hearing things.

"Yeah, mine. You've been mine since the first time I put my hands up your skirt and made you come. And you were sure as fuck mine the first time I slid inside your sweet cunt. And every fucking time after."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't fucking know what it means, babe. This shit... this isn't normal for me."

"This... shit?"

"Yeah, whatever it is that makes me lose half my fucking workday trying not to watch you walk around my house in those ridiculous tees and flats and those jeans that show off your fucking perfect ass and... see?" he asked, smiling a little boyishly. "Can't stop my mind from wandering now."

"So you want this to be... exclusive?"

"Pretty sure I covered that a couple weeks ago when I told you I don't share my candy."

"Yeah, but you never said anything about what you were allowed to do."

"Babe... all the time you spend watching me, you'd think you'd see by now that I'm not fucking around."

"All the time I spend watching you?" I repeated, mortification rising up strong and making my face heat up.

"It's cute as fuck that you think I don't notice. But I fucking notice. You usually have two little lines here," he informed me, touching the space between my brows, "like I'm some puzzle piece that doesn't seem to fit anywhere."

It shouldn't have surprised me that he'd noticed. He noticed everything. He'd noticed once when I stubbed my toe really bad getting out of bed and was walking with it tilted up so it didn't hit the floor and send another shot of pain through my foot. He'd noticed when I sneaked a bit of salt in his coffee once to cut the bitter. He'd even noticed the week before when I had my period. Without asking and without me sharing that information.

He noticed everything.

Of course he noticed me noticing him.

"Stop," he said, shaking his head at me.

"Stop what?"

"Over-thinking shit again. You like looking at me. I don't blame you," he said, lips tipping up at one side and it was really the first time he had ever shown a sign of arrogance over his looks. It was impressive actually, considering how ridiculously attractive he was. "Come on," he said when I couldn't think of something witty to say back. He got onto his feet and offered me his hand which I took perhaps a little too eagerly. "Let's get some ice for that cheek."

So then we got ice for my cheek and we went into the den where he flicked on the TV and stopped on
Don't Trust The B
without me having to say anything, pulling me down until my head was on his lap facing the screen and he put the ice on my cheek.

Things still weren't clear. Not in the completely transparent way I generally preferred with things involving the opposite sex. But it was progress. He didn't want me screwing around and, in turn, he wouldn't either. And when Byron gave his word, it meant everything. So I didn't even waste another minute wondering if he was sleeping with anyone else again. But we still hadn't exactly said what we were. Were we just exclusive fuck-buddies? Did being
his
imply that we were in some sort of relationship? Did he intend to stop treating me like an employee?

Burning questions, all.

But I fell asleep long before I could even mull over one fully.

The next day, I woke up in my own bed alone.

On a sigh, I climbed out of bed, showered, changed, and went downstairs to bring him his coffee.

But, for a change, when I walked in, his eyes snapped up in my direction, despite being on the phone.

He didn't say anything, but I got a minor chin jerk when I placed his cup by his hand. And, well, that was improvement. It was something to cling to.

We went to bed that night and had slow, sweet, incredibly overwhelming sex.

The day after that, he pinched my ass when he walked past me in the hall. Again, it was a little nothing. But it was still more than I was accustomed to. The day after
that,
he came into the kitchen where I was baking dessert, bent me slightly backward, and kissed me like it was the last time he would ever get to.

"You alright there, babe?" he asked afterward as I clung to him, not quite trusting my legs to hold me on their own just yet. My body felt like it was buzzing.

"That was... unexpected," I said, shaking my head to clear it of the dreamy fog coating it.

Byron being Byron, sidestepped the issue entirely and pulled himself up on my flour-coated counter in his expensive black suit, and stuck his finger in the bowl of batter I had been mixing. "This doesn't look like crumb cake," he said, inspecting his finger before sticking it in his mouth.

"That's because the crumb cake is already in the oven. This is madeleines batter."

"Madeleines?" he repeated, brows furrowing.

"Yeah. French butter cakes. You know, the spongy ones in the shape of shells? They're my favorite," I said, grabbing the cookie mold. "And Ella just so happened to have the molds for them."

"Of all the desserts in the world, you pick butter cakes?" he asked, face scrunching up like I was out of my mind.

"I'm a bit of a plain Jane, I guess," I said, shrugging, as I put the mold down beside the bowl to start rationing it out.

"Nothing plain about you," he said and I felt my chest do the warm thing again. I was getting way too used to that feeling. And it was making it way too easy to forget how fleeting it could be. It was easy to play house with Byron and convince myself it was real. But aside from a few small actions that suggested to my overly analytical mind that he was warming to the idea of having me as more than a fuck buddy and personal assistant, there had been no more conversations about what we were. And, chicken shit that I was, I could never bring it up. One, because it showed a vulnerability in me that I was uncomfortable sharing. Two, because it ran the chance of ruining what we had prematurely.

Weak as it might have been of me, I wasn't willing to risk that.

The next week, I was summoned to his office where he ever-so-casually told me to pack a bag. I was pretty sure my heart constricted hard in my chest, thinking he was kicking me out. "I have a business trip, babe. I'm gonna fuck you on every surface in that hotel room."

And with that, my heart swelled again.

He was taking me with him. On a business trip. He wanted me with him.

See... I was slowly but surely learning that Byron, and possibly all men, communicated more through actions than words. So while it certainly would have been nice for him to sit me down and inform me that he liked having me around and didn't want to be away from me for a weekend, him telling me to pack a bag relayed the same message.

I wasn't going to nitpick.

I packed a bag. I put in a pair of jeans, a tee, a button up, all the fancy lingerie Byron bought me and two of the dresses along with the tan heels, figuring that covered all my bases. I didn't bother with pajamas as Byron seemed inclined to fuck me into a stupor that made me forget that such things existed.

"That's it?" he asked as I rolled into the foyer the next morning.

I looked down at my bag, then back at him. "Ah, yeah?"

"Come here," he said, giving me a small smile. I moved toward him and he hauled me up against him, his lips crashing down on mine, hungry and needy, but not rough. Deep, intense, his tongue toying with mine until I was breathless and clinging to him.

He pulled back a long couple of minutes later and it took what seemed like forever to force my eyelids open. "Well," I said, shaking my head to clear it. "If that's all it takes to get a kiss like that... what would I get if I tossed half the stuff out of it and condensed it all down to an overnight bag?"

"Got a bathing suit in there?"

"A bathing suit?" I parroted, knowing it damn sure wasn't hot enough for a suit in Jersey.

"Yeah."

"Oh, um. No. I don't even own a bathing suit," I admitted, my life of bailing my father out leaving me very little room for afternoons by a pool.

"You live in a beach town and you don't have a bathing suit?" he asked with a brow furrow. At my head shake, he shrugged. "We'll pick one up there."

"
I'll
pick one up there. If I let you do it, I'd probably get postage stamps for a top."

"You've had no complaints about the dresses."

"They're a little tight," I complained.

"Yeah well, body like that, babe, the dresses should be tight."

"So the same logic would suggest you'd go the postage stamp option."

"If I let you pick, what's the chance that you'd pick out some eighteen-hundreds bathing costumes?" he asked with a smirk.

"I might be able to compromise for a simple one-piece," I said as he took my bag from me with one hand, and grabbed my hand with the other, and led me outside.

"Babe, no."

"And what is this
if
you
let
me nonsense? I'm fully capable of picking out my own bathing suit with or without your permission."

"Tasteful two piece," he said, ignoring my comment.

"If the bottoms are shorts, not bikini."

"Are you serious?" he asked, stopping and turning to look at me.

"I don't like being mostly naked in front of a bunch of strangers."

"Fuck everyone else. You'd be mostly naked for me."

"That's a nice philosophy to have. But people look at other people."

"You have great legs," he said, shaking his head as he released my hand and moved to the trunk to deposit my bag.