Page 5 of Carry Your Debt

Somber olive-green eyes dart between mine, dissecting me in that studious way only he can. My loyal shadow for so many years, he must recognize each conflicted feeling reflected there as easily as he can his own.

I both love it and hate it in equal parts.

“Nothing lasting. Nothing serious. Nothing ever more important than just getting off,” he rasps.

But it’s no longer enough,I want to say, instead finding myself struck dumb by the sheer potency of being in such close proximity to the man I consider my best friend and right hand. After so many weeks apart, it’s almost the same level of smothering relief as being reunited with Sabine.

His forehead meets mine.It’s not enough anymore,he silently agrees.

It occurs to me that I haven’t had the chance to properly catch him up on the events of this morning—opting instead to spend the day reading up about Tristan and his friends while plowing through a bottle of Jameson. And now, for some reason, instead of diving into the usual debriefing, tonight seems to be the night the first domino of our collective self-control has decided to tip itself.

All of the tension that’d been culminating for months before our exile, balanced so precariously, still uncertain on which way it wants to fall.

I swallow, and that rusted, barbed wire in my throat?

It’s a jagged fucking thing, and it only tightens its grip further.

“Party of two,or party of three?”

Rhett and I break apart as Sabine’s throaty laugh floats across the small apartment, slicing through the growing fog of tension with all of the subtlety of a hand grenade.I groan inwardly when the fingers that were just wrapped around my tie drop, brushing against my abdomen.

But then I turn and catch sight ofher.

She’s wearing nothing but a soft, oversized men’s t-shirt, leaving her long legs and feet bare. I can also see a hint of her elaborate back tattoo peeking over one shoulder, right where the stretched collar has slipped down her arm. Her freshly washed hair is pushed back and away from her face, showing off the jagged scar along her temple in a style that’s as equally effortless and full of attitude as she is.

She saunters toward where we’re standing in the tiny kitchenette, still close but no longer toe-to-toe. Her attention swings back and forth between us as she closes the distance, and it’s almost heady, having her focus laced as it is with muted excitement.

I straighten, nervous anticipation pooling in my gut.There’s no trace of that earlier hesitance anywhere on her face, almost as if our shocking conversation never took place at all.

Thisis the Librarian I'm more familiar with—all sass, all pure confidence.

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just...” she murmurs as she shimmies past before slinging herself up and onto the counter directly beside us. There’s a quick tease of black boyshorts when the shirt she’s wearing rides up. “You won’t even know I’m here,” she finishes with another serving of trademark Winters sauce.

Entirely unruffled by her interruption, Rhett slinks toward Sabine so that he can slot his hips directly between her knees. A large hand lands on each side of her tattooed thighs, caging her in. “I don’t think anyone’s forgettingyou’rehere, babygirl,” he purrs.

Her legs squeeze shut at the sound of his husky voice, and my jaw ticks reflexively.

He’s not wrong though.

But just as they’re drawing closer, gray eyes flick up over his shoulder as if instinctively seeking out my reaction—and if I didn’t know any better, I would’ve said that slight falter I saw in her expression looked almost...sheepish.

Regardless, there's no ignoring the way the atmosphere in the small room has thickened with Rhett's sultry words.

It'sexpectant—and whatever it is that’s been slowly awakening between the three of us expands even further—breathing in and out like it's a living thing.

Without warning, Rhett lifts a single hand, gripping the collar of his Henley and pulling it off in a single, smooth motion. He drops the shirt to the floor without a word, and my already erratic heartbeat skips once again as I’m greeted by the broad, inked muscles of his back, stretching and contracting with each movement.

Only this time, it’s not skipping beneath the press of anger.

No, not…anger.

This time, it’s beneath the choking surge of molten lust. Entwined with a healthy dose of dominance.

A need to claw back some semblance of control from this utter fucking shitshow of a day.

To punish Orbison for his over-familiarity with the object of my obsession.

To punishherfor the hold she has over me.

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