Debt

His hand stopped, grabbing my ass cheek hard again. "As of last night, this pussy is mine. And what's mine is mine alone. You don't even tempt someone with the idea of a taste, got that fucking straight?" he asked. And, helpless to do anything else, I nodded frantically into his neck as his finger did another swipe of my clit and my orgasm slammed through me hard, unexpected, making my legs give out suddenly as I clung to him and, unable to help it, moaned out his name.

He fucked me through my orgasm before planting deep and growling out my name. We stayed that way for a long minute, my heart slamming hard in my chest as my body trembled slightly, feeling overworked and frazzled. There wasn't an absurd urge to cry like there had been the night before, but I didn't want to let him go either. So I didn't. I held as tight as I had during sex, keeping my face buried, breathing in his scent, enjoying his strong body holding onto mine.

"Ease up, babe," he said, his tone infinitely softer than it had been before. When I shook my head and squeezed tighter, his hands went around my back, giving me a tight squeeze for a second. "I need to deal with this condom. You need me after that, I'm right here." With that, I slowly unfolded my arms from him, the muscles sore from holding on so tight as I moved to press back against the counter. Byron took a few steps back, grabbing his suit jacket and tossing it to me. "Throw that on. I'll be right back," he declared and walked out of the kitchen.

I shrugged into the jacket, fastening two buttons then bringing my hands up to cover my face, trying to deep breathe through the weird warm feeling in my belly and chest again. What was it about him? Why was he able to get to me so much? Not just sexually, though that was certainly intense, new, life-changing. But as a whole. I barely knew him, but him showing up late sent me into a hissy fit that made me go seek attention elsewhere? That wasn't me. I wasn't that kind of woman. I wasn't the one who needed to run to her best friend for a pint of ice cream and a bottle of wine when shit hit the fan. Mainly because I never fostered any close relationships with anyone, but also because that just wasn't who I was. I was very self-possessed. I didn't need to branch out. I didn't need a shoulder.

But maybe that wasn't the case.

Maybe that was just something else I had been trying like hell to make true about my life.

Maybe there had always been a part of me that wanted more, that wanted to connect.

Byron walked back into the room, stopping short at seeing me, eyes raking over me in a way that made me feel naked. "That's a good fucking look," he declared, moving over toward the island where the rest of the tarts were situated. He snagged the plate, then turned back to walk out of the room, making my heart feel like it plummeted to my feet. But then he turned back, brow raised. "You coming or what?" he asked, then turned and walked out of the room, leaving me to scurry behind, grabbing my clothes off the floor as I went.

He led us up the stairs and into his bedroom, putting the plate down on his nightstand and moving to discard all his clothes. As in... all of them. Then he pulled back the sheets and slid underneath. "Take that jacket off and get your ass in here," he demanded as I stood at the foot of the bed dumbly. And, well, I was helpless but to follow. I unbuttoned the jacket and shrugged out of it, picking up the sheets, and quickly climbing under, pulling the sheets almost up to my chin, something that wasn't lost on him if his smirk was anything to go by. "You gonna snuggle in or what?" he asked, reaching for a remote and flicking on the television in his cabinet beside the bedroom door. When a man like Byron suggested you snuggled in, yeah, you snuggled the hell in. I turned on my side and rested my head just under his shoulder blade, my arm resting on his chest. "Alright, so what do I have here?" he asked, reaching for the plate and resting it on his stomach.

"The strawberry with vanilla icing you requested, of course," I started.

"Of course," he agreed and I could swear I heard a smile in his voice.

"Then there are the brown sugar cinnamon ones."

"Classic," he agreed and I knew he was smiling.

A part of me wanted to tilt my head up and see it, not a condescending smile, not a wicked smirk, just a genuine smile. But instead, I just finished with, "And a Nutella, chocolate, and peanut better recipe I made up."