Second Debt (Indebted 3)

My eyes snapped closed.

Coming.

Yes, I’d love to.

He laughed softly. “Perhaps the wrong choice of words.” In a rustle of clothing, he pushed off from the doorjamb. “Or the right ones, depending on how the next few minutes go.”

A full body clench tore a small pant from my lips.

My eyes flew wide as he grabbed a fluffy towel and stalked toward me.

I pressed myself harder against the tiles. Shaking my head, I squeaked, “Stay there. Don’t—don’t come any closer.”

His face darkened; a flash of temper etched his features. “It’s not like I haven’t seen what you’re hiding, Ms. Weaver. Or are you forgetting that I’ve stuck my tongue in your cunt and driven my cock deep inside? I’ve tasted you. Ridden you. Made you moan.”

Shit.

My core spasmed, greedily latching onto his words—seeking the final push for the orgasm living in my blood. It would be so simple to let go. To tell him what I truly wanted and to hell with the rest of it.

They’re rotting up there while you fuck the oldest son.

Common-sense threw freezing water onto my overheated libido. With all the power I possessed, I ordered myself to ignore the tantalizing release and step back into the real world.

Seemed Jethro had come to the same conclusion as the aching awareness between us solidified into obligation. “Get dressed. We’re late.”

Swallowing hard and cursing my heavy body, I asked, “Late for what?”

With an unsteady hand, he held out the towel. He had the willpower of a saint or perhaps he was just as crazy as I feared because he didn’t move to touch me.

Damn him.

His eyes narrowed as his fingers tightened around the towel. “Polo.”

“Polo?” Images of men on horses whacking a ball around a field gave me something else to focus on.

“But…it’s Monday.”

Jethro cocked his head, chuckling under his breath. “You think the day of the week influences the crowd who play with us?” He shook his head. “If you hadn’t have told me it was Monday, I wouldn’t have known. Work days and weekends mean nothing when everyone obeys our schedule.”

He’s so damn arrogant.

Why do I find that so hot?

His eyes fell to my wet body. “Drop your hands.”

“No.”

“Obey me.”

“Why?”

Because you’ll end my anguish and give me what I need?

“Do it, Ms. Weaver. I won’t ask again.”

My tummy twisted. “Just because you’ve seen me doesn’t mean you have the right to see me again.”

He pursed his lips. “I can see and touch and do whatever the hell I want to you whenever I want.”

Temper slowly overrode my lust. I stood taller, glowering at him.

Fine.

He was back to being an arsehole. I could be a bitch.

Dropping my hands, I stood proud and defiant. I ignored the hissing showerhead and dared him to say something cruel. “Go on, look.” I spread my arms, twirling in place. “Seeing as you control my fate, I might as well walk around naked so you can always drink your fill.”

He growled, “Knock it off.”

Snatching the towel from him and throwing it to the floor, I snarled, “No.”

“What the fuck got into you?”

“What got into me? How about seeing proof of what my future holds.”

God, I didn’t mean to bring that up again. But if I wasn’t thinking of sex with my mortal enemy, I was plotting ways to switch coffins from Weavers to Hawks.

“You knew that’s what would happen.”

“Knowing and seeing are entirely different things.”

Jethro pinched the bridge of his nose, digging the tips of his fingers into his eyes as if seeking release from the rapidly building pressure in the room. “You’re driving me mad.”

“At least you finally admit it.”

His head whipped up.

I froze. Shit, I’d gone too far. Again.

“What did you just say?”

The spurting showerhead faded; the rapid thump-thump of my heartbeat faded. All I focused on was Jethro’s golden eyes—but more than that—I focused on his soul. The ragged, tattered soul that looked so completely lost.

Something inside him scared me to death but also called for help. I backed away—or rather, I tried to morph into the tiled wall behind me.

He glared, then…stepped into the shower.

Water instantly splattered his grey t-shirt and black jodhpurs as he stood over the wriggling water demon. His eyelashes sparkled with droplets as he coldly looked me up and down.

His hand came up. His lips twisted. A flash of violence danced across his features.

I did two things at once.

I cowered and suffered a vertigo wave.

Sickness slammed into me as I raised my arm above my head in defence. “Don’t hit me!” The room spun and I stumbled against the tiles, desperately trying to grasp something to keep me upright.

My vision shot black and I flinched as harsh fingers captured my elbows, giving me an anchor just like Vaughn used to do so many times when we were children. The moment I had a sanctuary, the vertigo left me, depositing me firmly in Jethro’s hold.

His eyes blazed with fury. “You couldn’t hurt me any more than you just did, Ms. Weaver.”

Why?

It’s because you jumped to conclusions.

When I first arrived at Hawksridge, I would’ve been completely justified to cower and protect myself, but only because I didn’t know who Jethro was. Now, I saw what he hid and violence was just a tool to him. A tool he didn’t like to use. A tool he’d been made to wield all his life. But beneath his ferocity was pain. Deep, deep pain that spoke of a man far too immersed in this farce.