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He'd listened. Really listened. Then told me not to worry about it.
Three days later, he asked me to dinner.
The whole thing felt surreal—like I was playing a part in someone else's story. But he was gorgeous. Successful. Interested. And I owed him rent money. The math wasn't complicated.
Six weeks in, he asked me to move into his place. His apartment was triple the size of mine, all clean lines and expensive furniture.
No more rent. More money for thrifting, for nights out with Jenna, for those ridiculous boots I'd been eyeing.
I thought I'd won the lottery.
The BMW turns onto his street, and I watch his profile in the dashboard glow. Strong jaw. Serious eyes.
Three months ago, I would've called myself lucky.
Now I'm watching my boyfriend throw phones into aquariums, and I can't shake the feeling I've traded one kind of debt for another.
That I've made a deal with the devil.
CHAPTER SIX
Daniel's hands find me the moment the apartment door clicks shut. His mouth claims mine—demanding, possessive. The kiss tastes like ginger and something darker.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
He presses me against the hallway wall, his fingers already working at my jeans. There's an edge to him tonight, sharper than usual. The restaurant incident is still crackling through his veins.
"You're mine," he breathes against my neck.
I arch into him, heat pooling low in my belly. "Yours."
This part, at least, has never been complicated.
He's rough tonight—exactly the way I've always liked it. His hands grip my hips hard enough that I know there will be marks tomorrow, little purple reminders pressed into my skin. His teeth scrape along my collarbone, not quite breaking skin but enough to make me gasp. Every movement feels deliberate, calculated to claim and conquer.
He knows what he's doing—every touch designed to make me forget everything except this moment, except him. The wall is cold against my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his bodypressed against mine, and I lose myself in the sensation of being wanted this intensely, this completely.
Most of my exes were forgettable. Fumbling hands. Predictable rhythms. The first time always held promise, but by the third or fourth, I could practically set my watch to their moves. Boring. Mechanical.
Daniel's different.
He knows exactly what he's doing—every movement intentional, every touch calculated. He knows how to build the tension, drawing it out slowly, methodically, until I'm trembling beneath his hands, my breath coming in shallow gasps. He understands precisely where to apply pressure, which spots make me arch off the couch, which angles make me forget my own name.
He's mastered the art of restraint, knowing exactly when to hold back, when to pause just long enough that anticipation builds into something almost unbearable, making me desperate and aching, wordlessly begging for more.
My nails rake down his back, and he hisses approval.
Afterward, we collapse onto the couch. My legs still shaky. His breathing ragged against my shoulder.
"I'll get us water," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. Gentle now. The switch flipped back to careful.
I pull on his discarded shirt—the fabric still warm from his body, carrying his scent—and curl into the soft leather cushions of the couch. The material feels luxurious against my bare legs as I tuck them beneath me, settling into the spot that's already molded to my shape from countless hours spent here.
The TV remote sits exactly where I abandoned it on the coffee table this morning, right next to my empty coffee mug and a stack of unread magazines.Sons of Anarchyis still queued up on the screen, frozen on the opening credits, waiting patientlyfor me to press play and dive back into the drama we've been binging.
Daniel returns with two glasses, ice clinking. He settles beside me, one arm draped over my shoulders.
I'm reaching for the remote when my phone buzzes. The new one Daniel picked up for me this afternoon—same number, transferred within hours. He'd handled everything.
