Page 57 of Blood Debt
I gasp through it—my hand gripping her hip tight, my mouth brushing her neck as I ride it out, panting, shaking, emptied by her hand.
****
She stands just a few feet from me, fingers moving in precise, disgusted strokes as she wipes herself with a tissue—like she’s cleaning off motor oil instead of what she just coaxed out of me.
Her jaw’s tight. Shoulders locked. Eyes flat.
She doesn’t look at me as she finishes and drops the crumpled tissue into the bin beside the chair.
My shirt clings a little to my chest, sweat cooling under the fabric. My breathing has already evened out, but the heat she dragged out of me still lingers under my skin.
God, she’s beautiful when she’s pissed.
She turns at last, eyes sharp, mouth a hard line.
“Happy now?” she asks, tone dry as ash.
I lean back in the chair, slow and satisfied. Let one hand rest on my knee. The other brushes lazily over my thigh.
I smile—nothing too wide, just enough to answer her. “Very.”
She nods once, like that confirms something dark she already believes about me.
“Well,” she says, brushing her palms against her skirt, “enjoy the memory. That was the last time.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m your maid,” she continues. “Not your personal fuckmaid. You want someone on call, call your fiancée.”
Her voice is low but sharp.
She starts to move past me. Shoulders high. Pride rigid in every line of her spine.
But I tilt my head and let the words slip out like silk.
“Do you want the favor returned?”
She stops.
Just one footstep short of the door.
Her back straightens like I slapped her with my voice alone.
She doesn’t look at me.
Not yet.
But she turns.
When our eyes meet, hers are cool steel.
“You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
I grab both her wrists in one hand and shove her down. Her back hits the couch cushions, and her legs part with a breathless gasp, her skirt riding high over her thighs.
She looks up at me, wide-eyed, lips parted, chest rising too fast.
I drop to my knees between her legs.
