The Marriage Debt (De Vos Mafia #2)(34)

I definitely am.

Jill isn’t and won’t ever be interested in me.

This girl is.

But then why can’t I fucking get Jill to disappear from my head?

I groan to myself as the girl behind me presses more kisses below my ear, trying to tempt me. “Come lie down with me. Spoil me. Use me.”

But the more I think about doing just that, the more guilt floods over me.

Because Jill is downstairs, sitting all by herself, waiting until my parents are done talking to hers.

And my mind immediately wanders to her again. To how she grabbed a pillow from the couch and chucked it at my face. The glorious grin on her face, and how badly it made me want to grab her by the throat and pin her to the couch.

I swallow.

I don’t even know why I threw that pillow back at her.

Or why I loved seeing the look of amazement on her face as we kept throwing them back and forth.

And when she fell on top of me, it almost felt like the world stood still. As if, for a second, I could pretend she didn’t hate my guts. Her body pressed up against mine made me stiff, and all I wanted at that moment was to rip off her clothes and thrust inside.

Fuck.

“C’mon,” the girl behind me says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Let’s have some fun.”

She kisses me, and I lean back to try to enjoy it, but all I can think of is just how upset Jill looked when she saw me bring this girl inside.

I texted this girl to come over because I didn’t know what the fuck to do with myself … or the giant boner I got when Jill fell on top of me minutes ago.

The way she accidentally stumbled after we threw cushions back and forth in an innocent game really got me silent. Her eyes peered straight into mine as her whole body leaned on mine, and every inch of my body wanted to hold her there.

Wanted to kiss her.

Touch her.

Grope her.

Fuck her.

Fuck.

I groan again as the girl pulls away from me.

Fucking Jill Baas.

Even when I tell myself I don’t want her, all I can think about is her. She’s screwing with my mind, and it’s exactly why I brought this girl over.

But fuck me, that image of her lying on top of me will never leave my mind.

Right as I turn around to focus on the girl I invited over, she pulls off her shirt and out bounces these giant, gorgeous tits that would make any guy’s dick hard as a rock.

I can’t lie and say that it doesn’t do it for me. But it’s tainted by that goddamn image of Jill swirling through my head, and it’s ruining everything I want to do.

“Fuck, no, wait.” I get up from the bed and march to the window to take a breath. “I can’t fucking do this.”

“But you asked me to come over,” she says, sounding disappointed as hell.

“I know.” I sigh as I rub my forehead. “Fuck.”

As I turn around, she quickly puts on her top again. Even though it’s on the wrong way, I don’t say anything. I don’t want to embarrass her further.

“It happens,” she says. “No hard feelings, right?”

“Right,” I say, but I don’t feel at all good about any of this.

Because if I can’t even fuck a girl without feeling guilty … what the fuck has Jill Baas done to me?

I clear my throat and turn around. “Let’s get you back home.”



Present



* * *



If Jill only knew the effect she had on me, even back then…

Someone knocks on the front door, pulling me from my thoughts. “Yes?”

“Sir, are you okay?” Max, one of my guards, asks as he steps in. “I heard some noise in here.”

“I’m fine,” I reply, holding my hand under the faucet to cool off and see if I need bandages.

“Okay, sir,” he replies as I fetch bandages from my office.

My guards have learned not to intervene or judge my responses. As long as I tell them I’m fine, there’s no need for them to know why I smashed my own statue.

“Sir, your mother called. She’s downstairs and says she wants to speak to you.”

“Let her come up,” I reply, sighing. I’m really not looking forward to talking with her right now. But my parents still have the majority of the business under their wing, and until they make me the sole owner, I have to keep them happy. For now.

After a few minutes, another knock on the door follows. One short tap, then two long ones. My mother’s signature knock and the one she uses before she starts berating my father.

“Come in,” I sneer as I wrap the bandage around my hand and secure it with some tape.

The door is pushed open, the click-clacking of her heels on my expensive flooring a nuisance to my ears. “What a warm welcome for your mother.”

I grab a glass and fill it with water, chugging it down in one go before I say, “Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to see how you two were getting along,” she muses, walking about my penthouse.

I turn around and clutch the counter. “Does it matter?”

She touches everything she passes—from the furniture to the flowers Lita bought to “cheer up” the house to the statue I just broke. It’s like she’s inspecting everything and deeming it unworthy with a single tip of the finger.