Debt

"You're taking this personally. It's not personal."

"It is personal. I might be a lot of things, Byron, but I am not, and have never been, foolish."

"It's not about you, can't you see that? It's about me. I know what kind of man I am, Prue. And I'm not one you should trust. I'm certainly not the one any sane woman would choose over a guy like Matt. So I have to believe that you're foolish and therefore untrustworthy or just..."

"Just what?" I asked, anger a coiled snake in my belly, just wanting him to flinch so I could strike.

"Just getting your rocks off before you smarten up and tell me to fuck off."

"Well, let's just save time then, shall we? Fuck off, Byron," I snapped, my voice raised, almost hysterical, as I pushed past him and reached for the door handle. But his body came up behind me fast, crushing me against the door, his head ducked into my ear.

"This is getting blown out of proportion," he said, his voice annoyingly calm while I felt like I was crawling out of my skin.

"Right. Because I am so foolish."

"Stop, babe, just stop," he said and his voice was doing that soft thing that turned my insides liquid. "I wasn't trying to piss you off. I was trying to explain where I stand here."

"And where do you stand, Byron?" I asked, my voice still snippy.

"I don't like seeing you melt for another man."

"I didn't melt for Matt."

"You were close. And Matt might be loyal to me, but he'd have taken advantage of that in a second. You either genuinely don't see it or you like that it pisses me off."

"I like that it pisses you off," I admitted, squeezing my eyes tight against the admission.

"Why?"

"Because it's proof that I'm more than an itch."

"Jesus fucking Christ, we're back to this again? Prue, you're not an itch. You're obviously not a one-night stand. You barely even qualify as a fling anymore. I don't know what the fuck you are, but you're not those things. So just stop bringing that shit up." I rested the side of my forehead against the door and took a deep breath. "What, babe?"

"I hate this," I admitted.

There was a long pause, his strong body still pressed into mine. "Then let's change it," he suggested, his hand going around my front and sliding up my thigh, hiking my skirt up inch by inch.

"That won't fix anything," I objected, already feeling my breasts swell and my muscles clench in anticipation.

"No, but it will feel good," he agreed, his hand sliding into my panties and stroking up my slit until he found the throbbing bud of my clit and started working it. "I'm not gonna fuck you here," he informed me, his finger moving down and pressing inside me as his thumb continued the sweet torment of my clit. "But I am going to make you come. And then we will go back out there and have a nice dinner and screw around at the tables. And then when I get you home," he paused, letting me get antsy for an explanation.

"And?" I asked, feeling his finger curve and start raking over my G-spot.

"And then I am going to introduce you to my flogger while I fuck you from behind until you scream loud enough for your throat to get raw."

With that promise, he gave me an orgasm in the supply closet then led me out into the lobby again where I pointedly avoided eye-contact with any of the employees who likely knew exactly what we were doing in the supply closet.

Mandy's restaurant was every bit as classy as the rest of the place with small, intimate dark wood tables with cream-colored flowers and candles as centerpieces and matching cloth napkins. The servers were in black and I could tell immediately that Byron liked to run a business where they were as unobtrusive as possible. They didn't seem encouraged to stand and small talk at the tables or be overly bubbly. They handled their jobs quietly and efficiently as to not break up table conversation.

We barely even paused at the hostess podium before we were led to a table in the far corner, away from the kitchen and the loudness of the bar. It was a curved booth and Byron slid in right next to me, our bodies touching from feet to shoulder as the specials were rambled off, Byron ordered wine, and we were left to look over the menu. We small talked as much as two people who didn't regularly engage in such actions could be expected to about the menu, the renovations, how Byron had worked not just in the offices, but the security devision, the floor as a dealer, and even both back and front of the house in the restaurant. His uncle believed that to run a successful business, you had to know the ins and outs of each department so when they came to you with problems, you could easily create solutions.