DEBT by Jessica Gadziala Page B

milk to go with it. Because, let's face it, with a dessert like that, you had to have some milk.
    Finding his office empty, I went to the den. Then, with a sinking feeling knowing, already knowing where he was, I checked the living room anyway. Hell, I even checked the dining room and the back porch. Then, with a swirling uncomfortable feeling inside, I went up the stairs and stopped outside his cracked bedroom door, taking a deep breath, convincing myself it meant nothing that he wanted his dessert in his bedroom.
    But knowing better.
    "Are you going to stand out there all night?" Byron's voice called, a little distant, a little cool, but not completely nasty for a change. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open with the tip of my shoe.
    The lights were low, but on. The TV was on, some kind of news commentary, but the volume was too low to make anything out. And Byron was on his bed, sitting back against the headboard, shoes off, slacks on, but belt gone, dress shirt on but jacket discarded and all the buttons undone, exposing a sliver of his tan, perfect skin from waistband to throat.
    My eyes found his face and everything about it confirmed the swirling in my belly.
    I knew a slaughterhouse when I saw one.
    And if I went anywhere near that bed, I was going to end up gutted.
    But what choice did I have?
    I took a deep breath and took purposeful steps into his room, going directly to his side of the bed, focusing my attention on putting down the glass and plate, ignoring the hovering presence of a silent Byron. I had moved to straighten when I felt my wrist snagged in a large, strong palm. Despite my brain booming out the ear-splitting warning signal you hear in every movie proceeding the end of the world, I lifted my eyes to his, seeing the knife in his smile, knowing how much it was going to hurt when it started slicing layers off of me.
    But I didn't pull away.
    There was a pregnant pause, both of us waiting for something, him for me to pull away, me for him to do something, say something that would allow my better sense to take control again.
    In the end, Byron's hand pulled, sending me flying toward the bed, landing longways across it, barely able to get my equilibrium back before his body was half over mine, his head tucked down, his lips finding the sensitive column of my neck. Propped up on one arm, the other slid down the side over my body, teasing the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip. His fingers stopped at my knee, curling in, cocking it, and draping it around his back. His hand whispered down my calf, snagging my heel and pulling it off. I used the edge of the bed to kick out of my other, bringing my other leg up to wrap around him as his tongue traced upward to tease over the edge of my earlobe, dragging a shiver out of me.
    On a rumbling, growling sound that reverberated through his body and into mine, his hand stroked back up my thigh to sink into my hip, pulling as he rolled onto his back, dragging me on top of him as he went. His legs parted, allowing mine to slide inside, pressing me bodily against him for a moment before I planted my arms and pulled up slightly.
    Against my stomach, I could feel his erection, hard and straining, into my soft flesh.
    His hands moved up, taking my hair which had curtained us and pulling it to one side of my head, wrapping it around his fist then tugging downward hard enough for me to gasp so his lips could claim mine. I pulled my body up a few inches, letting his cock settle at the juncture of my thighs, hard, offering a solution to the problematic heaviness tightly coiled low in my belly.
    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,