Debt

And I knew it was wrong. It was warped, twisted, completely insane. And utterly unlike me.

I chose the right men. Granted, none of them had turned out to be the right one, but I went with the smart choices. I went with men from stable backgrounds who worked hard at whatever their chosen profession was. I picked men who had manners and treated me well. They were all good, stable, and maybe just a little bit boring. But most of all... safe.

I always played it safe.

There was nothing safe about Byron St. James.

He was an ocean, constantly ebbing and flowing, always threatening a violent undertow or rip current.

And I was not a strong swimmer.

But the second his body touched mine, I was helpless to do anything but sink.

His hand released my hair and both palms flattened near my shoulders then moved slowly, possessively down my back, like he was claiming every inch. They trailed down and settled on my ass, squeezing hard, and thereby pressing his cock harder against my sex, drawing a ragged moan from my lips, the sound muffled by his mouth. I moved my legs out from between his, planting them on either side of his hips so I could rock against him, the friction easing some of the clawing need inside. Against my mouth, he let out a low, sexy grumble as his hips started thrusting up against mine as his teeth grabbed my lower lip and bit hard enough to draw a yelp from me. His lips pulled from mine, my eyelids fluttering open to find his dark eyes on mine.

"I..." I started, but was cut off by the shrill, unsettling scream of his cell phone on the nightstand.

He watched me for a long minute, his hand moving up again to cup my jaw, like he wanted to say something, but was searching for the right words. In the end, though, he knifed up, taking me with him, and reached for his cell, swiping over the screen before bringing it up to his ear. "Yeah?" he barked, his eyes on me, one of his hands still on my lower back. "Fuck. Alright. Yeah. Twenty. Okay. Keep me updated," he said, ending the call and dropping the cell down on the mattress.

And in that ten seconds, my common sense came rushing back, flooding my system with all the thoughts his hands on my body pushed away.

I let him touch me again. I melted into it again. Hell, I had ground myself against his erection.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

"Trying to convince yourself you regret it?" he asked, hand still pressing hard into my back.

I swallowed hard against my suddenly dry mouth. "I don't have to convince myself of anything. Of course I regret it."

"You know one perk to working in and then owning a casino?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me," I drawled.

To that, his lips tipped up slightly. "You learn how to read a poker face, no matter how good it is. You got a shitty fucking poker face, babe. You want to regret it, but you don't. So why don't you get your sweet ass off my lap, go find something appropriate in your closet, change into it, and meet me downstairs in ten."

Pretty much the second that he reminded me I was still sitting on his lap, I wrenched away and took my feet, then took a couple feet in retreat just to make sure he couldn't reach me. Not that he planned to, though, since he was reaching for the plate of dessert instead. "Am I going somewhere?"

"We," he emphasized, "have to go to Mandy's for a little bit."

Mandy's?

If there was one place I definitely did not want to go, it was to Mandy's.

"Um. I'll pass," I said, shaking my head as he dug his fork into his dessert, paused, then slowly looked up at me with one brow raised.

"Did I make that sound like a request? My mistake. Put some fucking clothes on and meet me downstairs. Now," he barked when I didn't immediately move to comply.

I lifted my chin and moved toward the door. "I hope you choke on that," I shot at him over my shoulder.

"Oh, Prue. You really want to believe you mean that, don't you?"

With no comeback to that, I stormed into the hall then my room, slamming the door and going toward my closet.

Fact of the matter was, he was right again.

I did want to believe I hated him. Everything about the way he had treated me told me that I should run screaming, not fall into his arms. But there was just... something there. Between us. There was a pull that, despite the way he often talked down to me, drew me toward him. Maybe it was as simple as a primal need to work through the sexual frustration there was no mistaking with us. But, there was a voice in the back of my head that suggested it was more than that, it went deeper, it was just as mental, just as psychological as it was sexual.