"I don't remember your name," she moaned. "I swear to God. It's on the tip of my tongue."
This girl was too much. "Call me whatever you like. "
"I don’t want to forget you."
She forgot who I am. It made me desire her even more.
I smiled, pushing a strand behind her ear. "It’s Graham."
"Right," she sighed. "I thought so."
"And you’re Naomi. Pretty name." I lowered myself, kissing her. "Nice to meet you. Again."
She slowly dug her nails into my scalp. "Pleasure’s all mine."
"Not yet."
I was one hundred percent awake, and more aware of her body. Her skin glowed red from the shower. The perfect breasts I played with all night were flush against my chest. She pulsed with heat, her skin slick with water. It made me think of where I enjoyed her wet the most.
I ran my hand down her curves, starting with her neck and shoulder, and then sweeping around to grab her tits. Then I stroked her side, caressing the small bumps of her ribs before I got to her hips. I reached to take hold of her ass. She sighed as I groped down her thigh.
I grabbed her knee and pulled her leg across mine. "I could spend all day touching you."
"Come here."
Naomi palmed my left pec and slid her hand up my neck, her gaze smoldering. She raised her head and yanked me into a hard kiss. Our tongues clashed as my weight pressed into her. A fire spread from our mouths, from everywhere she touched. God, I wanted her. I fucked her in my dreams after banging her all night, and I needed more.
Naomi slid my cock between her legs. I drove down and forward. She threw her head backward and gasped. I watched her face as I sank into her wet heat, relishing her desperate struggle for air. Naomi was a tough woman, but her defenses fell with every thrust.
I plunged, and she bit her lip. My third stroke made her yelp. By the fifth, she was screaming. Naomi clung to me as though I saved her life. She lifted her hips to meet my rhythm.
Pleasure slammed into my cock. Fucking this woman was heaven. She was tight everywhere, and she set me completely free. I didn't have to worry about her intentions, or whether she was faking. I'd been with high-class prostitutes. I knew the difference between detached amusement and off-the-charts chemistry.
She gripped the headboard, bracing herself against my full-body thrusts. A shockwave rippled through her body. She tightened her legs around me, screamed, and wrenched me into a kiss. Her tongue dove in my mouth. My orgasm was too close. I had no control on the pressure building in my erection. Energy balled in my throat. The wave crashed, releasing my energy in a long moan. My cock pulsed in the incredibly warm grip.
Way too amazing—better than last night.
I buried my face in her neck, breathing hard. Neither of us said anything for a while. I could've stayed in that moment — listening to her breathe as pleasure coiled my limbs — for a lifetime. She smiled when I kissed her cheek.
"Why was that so good?"
Naomi traced my back with a lazy finger, her voice tense. "We didn’t use a condom."
Graham, you fucking moron. "Oh."
"It’s okay. I’m on birth control."
What an idiot. "I’m sorry."
"No, it was my fault, too. I should’ve been more cautious." Naomi shook her head, releasing a nervous laugh. "There’s something about you."
"What?"
"You seem like a good guy. I can trust you."
"You didn’t know my name ten minutes ago." I grinned, my arms shaking from holding myself upright. "Not that I care."
"In my defense, how many times did I say it last night?"
"I remembered yours."
"Fine. Torture me for having a piss-poor memory." She pressed her lips into mine, softly. "But have brunch with me first."
"Only if I get to have you again. And again."
She winked, making my heart skip. "Well, that’s a given."
Hell yes.
Naomi
Ethan lost the fight.
I celebrated in silence during that awkward cab ride and smiled at Ethan's muttered curse when he staggered into the bathroom. Everyone lost in that idiotic brawl, but only one person ended up on the floor, bleeding.
Served him right.
He gripped the porcelain sink. The backsplash of midnight tiles reflected his fury. The beating marred Ethan's good looks. Too bad. He might've made someone happy. He checked off all the boxes of a generic handsome list—tall, charming smile, fit body—but I didn't want him. Ethan had nothing to offer but intimidation and fear.
"Stop gloating and come here." His bloodshot gaze found mine in the mirror. "Attend to your fiancé."
I had no desire to touch him, much less dress his wounds. “You did this to yourself. You’ll clean it up yourself.”
He glared with the eye that wasn't swollen shut. Enough menace gleamed through it for two.
"Get over here."
"No."
Do this, do that. Fuck him. I was sick and tired of being bossed around. Soon, it would end.
"You had it coming, babe."
Ethan looked like he wanted to throw something. "You’re in a rare form, tonight."
"Whose fault is that?"
He unbuttoned the crisp white shirt before finding a missing button. The sight of it snapped his restraint, and suddenly the fabric tore with a violent ripping. Indigo studs scattered and bounced. He dumped the ruined shirt, revealing a body that rippled with muscle, its power undiminished by the red marks.
Once, the sight of him half-naked sent a flurry of butterflies soaring. That was before I learned about his jet-setting booty calls—the flings with supermodels. He’d book a private jet and fly halfway across the world to fuck women whose Instagrams made me bleed with envy. Ethan confessed they were bores in bed. The publicity was more important. When paparazzi shot him with a supermodel hanging on his arm in Thailand, France, or wherever he wanted to build another luxury hotel, the social media engagement did wonders for his brand.
It’s business, Ethan’s voice echoed. Get over it, Naomi.
A nasty cut above his eye swelled with congealed blood. He grabbed rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet—fucking maniac—and drenched a cotton ball. He pressed into the cut without wincing. It must’ve burned like crazy.
Sighing, I walked into the bedroom we hadn’t shared in months. Every step forward was infuriating, but watching him harm himself was worse. I wasn’t a sadist.
My feet curled on the heated tile scattered with tens of thousands of dollars worth of vintage Versace cufflinks. The housekeeper would sweep them into the dustbin. Ethan didn't care. He treated everything he owned like shit, including me.
I held out my hand for the cotton ball. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Jesus, do you want to blind yourself?" I grabbed the rubbing alcohol, twisted the cap, and shoved it into the medicine cabinet. "This will do more harm than good. Sit down."
Talking back usually earned me a brutal putdown, but I met his gaze and didn't flinch. A sinister smile widened his jaw as he tossed the wet cotton into the trash. I plucked a fresh one and dabbed it with soap.
"What are you waiting for?" he barked.
“You’re too tall.”
He sat on the bench. I swept brown locks from his face. It was the first time I’d touched him in months. At least I’d be hurting him.
I worked at the gash, grimacing at the blood. It smeared across his brow and almost dripped into his eyes. He shut them. I patted the area dry, but he kept them closed, as though enjoying my touch.
Far too intimate for my liking.
“What is he to you?” he blurted.
“Who?” I knew perfectly well, who.
“Hawthorne.”
Everything you’re not.
I blocked the rising grief. “Some guy I had a drunken weekend with.”
“You must’ve made a lasting impression on him.”
“He’s insane. We were together four days.”
But they were far from meaningless. We started as strangers seeking a good time. We ended with promises to continue our relationship. They were torched the moment Graham stood me up at the airport. No explanation besides a card handed to me from the hotel receptionist.
Ethan couldn't understand a relationship that wasn't transactional. The part of me that loved was missing in Ethan. Even he felt the void. He sure as hell sought connections with other women — anything to fill that gaping hole.
I cleaned Ethan’s brow, wiping him more gently than he deserved. “It’s pretty nasty. You might need stitches. You should call someone.”
His eyes flashed, startling me. "No."
"But it might scar."
"So it’ll fucking scar," he snapped. "I want you to do it."
I gaped at him. "Why?"
"I’d rather have my fiancée touch me."
Disgust surged up my throat. There hadn’t been anything between us for months. When would the taunting end? I tossed the bloodied cotton into the trash and whirled away.
His hand shot out and seized my wrist. “You’re wearing my ring. I expect you to act accordingly.”
Like you?
I twisted from his grasp, but he held firm. A steely look from his eyes told me I wasn’t going anywhere until he was satisfied.
“You kissed him,” he ground out.
"That’s what you’re pissy about? Graham kissed me."
“I saw how you looked at him.”
Unbelievable. “Do you even have any idea the number of women you’ve fucked behind my back? You don’t get to play the jealous boyfriend after you cheated on me God knows how many times.”
Amusement colored Ethan’s words. “Oh, you were angry about them?”
I hated him. He knew damned well I was. I spent two days locked in a guest room, crying. He tossed a box of napkins onto the bed after the second night.
"Fuck you."
"Already have. Get me ice."
I swallowed a rolling boil of fury and shoved it way, way down. I left his side to dig a bag of frozen scallops from the freezer. When I returned to the bathroom, Ethan's face was in his hands. He raked his hair, revealing a swollen lump.
I held the bag against his forehead. He looked just as unhappy as I felt.
“I fought him for you,” he said.
No, he didn't.
"You were defending your pride. Not me."
“Sometimes they’re the same.”
Ethan’s fingers traced my rapidly cooling ones. Nausea slammed my throat when he covered my hand with his. It was the closest thing to an apology that I’d ever get.
But he didn’t take his hand away. “What are you doing?”
“Naomi, I haven’t been with anyone in weeks.”
“Do you want a fucking medal?”
I ripped my hand from his. There might’ve been a chance for us to have a decent relationship, but he doused every warm feeling with ice-cold water. It was in his nature to self-destruct.
I wanted nothing to do with him. I headed out of the bedroom.
“Come here."
“I’m not your dog,” I threw over my shoulder. "Go to hell."
The scallops smacked the floor with a crunch. Ethan shot from the bench. In a few seconds, he seized my arms. Biting cold nipped at my skin as he whirled me around and shoved. My legs hit the firm mattress.
“Ethan." My voice jumped an octave. "What are you doing?”
I fell onto the bed. His weight pinned me down, forcing my wrists on either side of my head. Hard muscle dug into my curves. My heart galloped ahead as I struggled. I opened my mouth to protest. He silenced me with his lips.
I jerked away. "The fuck, Ethan?"
He traced my frown with his mouth.
Then he smiled. “That’s better.”
He kissed me. Tongue diving in, he probed and violated me. His hip dug into mine painfully. His touch was clammy. It was all wrong. Sharp disgust needled my gut as he devoured me, grinding against me harder the more I twisted. He was a monster who relished in my pain.
I kneed his groin. Ethan blocked me, the grip on my wrists loosening as he straightened. “I had to get the taste of him out of your mouth.”
I sat up and wiped my face, shaking. “You don’t want me. Why are you doing this?”
“I never said I didn’t want you.”
God, he was a train wreck. I pushed him off me and stormed from his room, so angry I headed straight for the elevator.
I wanted out.
I never wanted to see him again.
Your father needs you.
I stopped before I reached the elevator. Dad did need me, and I couldn't let an old flame—and my feelings for him—screw that up.
I was so close.
The floorboards creaked as Ethan followed me like a malignant ghost.
"Could you just leave me the fuck alone?"
“Naomi. The hospital called.”
Tears constricted my throat before I turned. It had been two years since that awful call from my father. Four words that’d destroy me forever. Lung cancer. Stage three.
Two years of hoping, praying, crying. I thought Ethan loved me, but he loved power more. His emotional blackmail extended to dangling cancer treatments over my head. He knew I’d bite. My father was my world.
“Just tell me,” I said, blinded by tears.
“He was denied for the clinical trial. I’m sorry.”
Ethan wore a somber expression, but he loved this. I was desperate. He had me where he wanted.
“That’s his only shot. You know it is.”
“Sorry.”
We’d waited too long, and now it was over. Tears skated down my cheeks. “Ethan, you promised.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
I could’ve gouged out his eyes. “Don’t toy with me. The only reason we’re together is because of my father. If he dies, there goes your leverage.”
"Your business—"
"Screw it. If you kill my father, we are done. I’ll leave you, and you’ll have to find a new fiancée to torture."
“First of all, I haven’t touched your father. Stop with the fucking hysterics. The oncology team decided he wasn’t a good candidate."
“You’re lying.”
He crossed his arms. “Not about this.”
I approached him until I could count his lashes. “You can change their minds.”
"Maybe."
Ethan swept away, breezing passed like chilled air. He strolled the marbled foyer, a white floor cracked with rivers of black, and slid into the living room stuffed with rigid modern couches. He dropped onto the L-shaped couch after sliding his thumb over an electronic panel. The wood paneling on the wall split to reveal a television. Ethan grabbed the remote and flipped to a random channel.
“It’s my dad, Ethan.” I sat on the coffee table, blocking his view. “Please.”
A muscle jumped in his tense jaw. He stared through instead of at me, but I knew he heard.
I slid to the floor, and my knees knocked into the marble as I begged him.
"Please."
Ethan’s deep blues found mine. “I could make it happen for your father. If I wanted.”
My jaw dropped. He was going to bargain for my father’s life.
“I’ll do anything.”
He quirked an eyebrow, a smile playing on his face. I read the suggestion on his lips—Anything, huh?
I fucking hate you. "What do you want?"
“Hawthorne out of your life. Completely, Naomi. That means no phone calls, texts, or secret meetings behind my back.”
“How am I supposed to do that? We’re married.”
“I’ll hire the best divorce lawyers money can buy. I’m not worried about ending your marriage. I question your loyalty.”
This was rich.
“You’re the one with the horrible track record.”
“You can’t see him again.” He cocked his head studying me. “And you’ll need to do some serio
us damage control for that kiss.”
I never said I didn’t want you.
What he said before reverberated in my head. I studied Ethan’s hard mouth and tense jaw with more interest than I had in months.
Maybe he was jealous. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Please bore someone else with your questions.”
“Are you jealous?"
Ethan said nothing for several painstaking seconds. “Call me crazy, but I don’t want my fiancée to have feelings for any man but me.”
“You realize those feelings are mostly dislike, right?”
Ethan gave up on pretending the screen was more interesting than me. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
"You have everything you want, but I only have what you allow me. That’s not a relationship. It’s a hostage situation.”
A ringing silence followed my words as a commercial flashed, illuminating his face in sickly green hues. "I’m glad you’ve come to terms with your circumstances."
I stood, shaking. "Will you do this for me or not?"
“Yes, as long as Hawthorne is out of your life. For good." Ethan got to his feet. He couldn’t stand me towering over him. "Deal?"
I slid my hand into his and squeezed. "Deal."
Ethan expected me to fall over myself in thanks. I pressed my lips together and counted the seconds until I could be alone. Instead of letting me go, Ethan pulled me close.
"Starting tonight, you and him are done."
"Fine." As far as I was concerned, we’d been over for five years.
Satisfied, Ethan nodded and slipped from my grasp. Light from the television spilled over the white marble like a strobe light. Pink. Blue. Yellow. When red flashed across my toes, I realized I hadn’t asked the question nagging me the whole way home.
How did he know Graham?
Naomi
Did last night happen?
When dawn’s light filtered through my door, I gave up on sleep. I sank into a hazy, dream-like state where I could conjure Graham.
If only I’d walked out with him.
After spending way too much time imagining what might've happened, I ripped the covers from the bed. I padded into the cold living room bleached with sunrays. My fiancé sat in a lounge chair facing the morning sun, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His head lolled to the side, and I winced at his swollen cheek and brow.
The Marriage Debt Page 3