Page 55 of Blood Debt
“So you weren’t drunk that night?” she asks, eyes meeting mine for the first time.
“I was,” I say plainly. “But I remember one thing clearly—how much you liked my finger inside you.”
Her eyes widen, and she stands abruptly. “I need to leave.”
She turns. I close the space with calm steps, not fast, just inevitable.
As she backs away, I pause.
Her eyes dart to the side.
I gesture downward—toward the hard, visible press in my trousers.
“Who’s going to help me now, hmm?” I ask, voice smooth. “You interrupted.”
She keeps stepping backward. Her spine almost brushes the edge of the doorframe.
“Call your fiancée,” she snaps, her tone sharp, trying to reestablish ground she already lost.
I stop directly in front of her.
My voice drops low.
“I don’t want her.”
A pause.
“I want you.”
I catch her by the wrist.
She stiffens instantly, but I don’t let go.
Her eyes are wide—almost startled. I can feel the rapid pulse under her skin as I guide her hand down, down between us, until her fingers press against the thick line of my cock through my pants.
She freezes.
I lean in close—my voice low, almost soft. “You interrupted me.”
Her lips part like she’s about to speak, to apologize, to deny. I don’t give her the chance.
“Help me finish,” I say, and guide her backward, step by slow step, until her back meets the wall.
She swallows. I lift the hem of her wrist with mine, curling her hand around me through my slacks. I hold it there, firm, making her feel the weight of what she’s touching.
My cock twitches beneath her palm.
“You want it, don’t you?” I ask, eyes locked on hers.
She doesn’t answer.
Her hand stays still. But her breath catches.
I lean in, lips brushing her ear—close enough that she can feel the heat of every word.
“Do you?” I murmur.
Then I drag my tongue along the edge of her ear.
