First Debt (Indebted #2)(11)

“I am nice. Once you get to know me.”

Her small laugh surprised both of us. “You’re a lot of things, but nice is not one of them.”

Anger boiled in my stomach. “You pissed me off before I had the opportunity to be nice. Didn’t I say you deserved to be rewarded after this afternoon? I have many things to lavish you with, Ms. Weaver. You only have to give in. Grant me the power. Give up and stop fighting me.” I stroked her spine, gritting my teeth against the ripple of pre-cum shooting up my cock. Goddammit, she was too delicious. Too strong. Too much.

She’s a Weaver.

I shook my head, dispelling everything until only silence remained.

“You must know I can’t do that. I’ve given up power to men all my life. I stupidly let my father control me, believing he knew what was best for me. And you know what that got me? A one-way ticket to hell to play with a devil I never knew existed.” She looked over her shoulder, making eye contact. “Why should I give you that courtesy? Why should I let you rule the remaining shortness of my sad, little life?”

For once, I was speechless.

Nila murmured, “You can’t reply, because you know this is wrong. On some level, you know the only right thing to do is to let me go and forget about this madness, but you won’t. Just like I won’t give you the power you seek. Just like I will never stop fighting you.”

She suddenly shot forward, breaking my hold on her hips.

My heart raced at the thought of her running again, but she turned to face me, kneeling upright so we were eye-to-eye. The muscles in her stomach shadowed in the rapidly gathering darkness, her white skin glowing with interspersed cuts and bruises.

“You said I owe you. I agree. You gave me something in that dining room. As much as you think you were only helping save my mental state, you showed me more than you probably wanted. I see you, Jethro Hawk. I see what you’re trying to hide, so don’t delude yourself into thinking I buy your hypocritical bullshit.”

Crawling forward, her tiny hands landed on my belt, releasing the button and zipper in one short second. It was my turn to blink in shock.

She’s a seamstress, idiot.

She dealt with buttons and zippers every day—they were her forte. Dealing with what lived behind them however was entirely another.

I hated, positively hated, that she’d stolen my power again. She’d drugged me with her witch potion, making me think only with my dick.

Fisting her hair, I growled, “You’re on thin ground, Ms. Weaver.”

Her temper exploded like a firework. She snarled, “Wrong. I’m on Hawk ground, and I’m still standing. You want me to pay you back? Fine. Tell me what to do, then feed me and take me back to your vile home. I’m ready for this day to end.”

My mind went numb as her hand disappeared into my jeans, cupping me boldly.

“Or better yet, take what I damn well give you.”





I HAD NO words for what I was doing.

Seriously, no words.

Part of me hated myself for being drawn to Jethro even now—especially after he’d hunted me down and punished me like some animal. But the other part—the bigger part—loved the woman I was becoming. I didn’t have anyone to rely on. I had no one saying what was right or wrong. The rules of everyday life had no place in this new existence, and if Jethro thought I would play by his rules, he was a f*cking idiot.

His erection leapt in my hands, hot and scalding—the only part of him warm.

His golden eyes were blank of all feeling, and for one blessed moment, he stared at me with lust. Only lust.

Then anger saturated him, his fingers latching around my invading wrist. “What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?”

I tugged the waistband of his boxer-briefs with my free hand, twisting my other from his grip, and sliding my fingers into the dark heat of his underwear. He locked his jaw as I traced the length of his cock.

“I’m paying you back. This is what you had in mind, right? An orgasm for an orgasm?”

He growled low in his chest, his eyes narrowing with hate and need.

Don’t lie to me, you bastard.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. I squeezed him hard—hard enough to cause shooting pains in my palm.

He jerked in my hold. “Jesus.”

That one word switched the rage splashing my insides into lust-blazing gasoline. The hardness of him sent electricity humming in my fingertips. The anger brimming below the surface turned my insides into hot liquid.

This.

This power.

This body-consuming connection.

It was pure.

Simple.

Intoxicating.

The whipping he’d given me hadn’t made me wet. I’d never associated pain with pleasure. Sure, I’d read the books and heard rumours about how exciting a BDSM relationship could be with someone you trusted implicitly, but that was the key difference.

I didn’t trust Jethro.

At all.

This was a battle.

Every time we touched, licked, and eventually f*cked, it would be war.

And only one victor would come out alive.

I have every intention of winning.

Sex to me didn’t come with past perceptions or notions. Sex wasn’t wrapped up with love or sweetness in my brain. In a way, I had my father to thank for keeping me secluded and untouched. I’d uncovered an aptitude for delivering pleasure—an affinity for the basest of need.