The Debt_Mafia Vows by SR Jones

Author:SR Jones [Jones, SR]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-17T16:00:00+00:00

I’m fuming. Fucking livid. Raging … which is not like me. I’m also turned on. She threw salad at me. No woman has ever done anything quite so brave. Yes, Maya is tempestuous and, at times, she overreacts, but I kind of like it about her. She’s fiery, and she has a temper that, a lot of the time, she keeps in check, but every now and again it wins out and flares into a tantrum. It doesn’t last, though, and she doesn’t strike me as a sulky type. She’s probably already thawing out.

Maybe there is something magical about Paris, because I can’t seem to be rational about Maya. I know I should keep a distance between us. I was going to tease her, tempt her, taunt her maybe, and make her want me. I wanted to do it to prove a point, to fuck with her a bit, but now it’s much more. Now I plain want her.

I can’t, though, shouldn’t. It’s wrong. There’s a connection between her and me, though. A weird electricity zings between us with that something. The intense mutual attraction you only get with one or two people in your life, if you’re lucky. Some people never experience it.

For the next twenty minutes, I pace the room. I don’t want to finish my meal. I’ve taken my shirt off and wiped myself down as best I can, getting rid of the Caesar dressing decorating my neck, and I’ve poured and drank a large whisky.

On my tenth turn around the suite, I stop outside the bathroom door.

I imagine her in the shower all golden limbs, wet and tempting as the water streams down her skin.

I head nearer the door, knowing I shouldn’t. She’s been a long time, though, maybe I ought to check she’s okay.

I laugh at myself, at the absurdity of the excuse. I don’t know what I’m doing with this girl. What my goal is, or if I even have a goal. I seem to act on instinct more and more around her. I don’t act on instinct, not often. I think things through, and I’m as calm as fuck. Maya has me … not calm. So not calm.

I rap on the bathroom door and listen. There’s no sound of the shower running, so she’s probably getting dried.

“Come in,” she calls. Her tone isn’t angry anymore, and as I thought, she sounds as if she’s worn her anger out.

I prefer someone who flares up quick and bright and gets it over with quickly, compared to someone who sulks or punishes you for hours with passive aggressive dirty looks and petulant sighs, but won’t tell you what’s wrong when you ask. The last woman I had a relationship of sorts with was a master at the moody, silent treatment stuff, and I ended it sooner than I normally do because I don’t have the time to cajole shit out of women who play games.

Pushing open the door, expecting to see her wrapped in a fluffy towel, I stop dead when my eyes take in the sight in front of me.

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