Besides the marks on his wrist, there were plenty more scattered across his back.
Catherine paused for a moment, collected herself, and continued down the stairs. Her walk was off—each step betrayed the lingering ache in her thighs.
“Not even a word about last night?” Lance called from the landing, elbows propped on the banister, fingers laced together.
Catherine stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “We’re adults. There’s really nothing to talk about. Just consider it a favor you owe me, and we’ll call it even.”
Lance’s gaze narrowed. “A favor I owe you?”
“Absolutely.” Catherine didn’t actually want to cash in a favor—she just needed to reframe the insanity of yesterday. Turning it into a transaction was easier to swallow than dwelling on the awkwardness.
“And why’s that?” Lance straightened, slid his hands into his pockets, and came down, stopping just a step above her.
She stared at him, baffled. “I helped you. So, you owe me. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?”
“I don’t see it that way. Sure, you helped me… but I helped you, too.” The smirk in his tone was unmistakable. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it?”
Catherine flushed with anger. “I was forced!” she snapped, mortified.
“All I’m asking is, did you enjoy it or not?”
Her lips pressed together in furious silence. The man was impossible.
“We both know I started it,” Lance continued, lazy and self-assured, “but you didn’t stop me. You more than enjoyed yourself. So—we’re even.” He descended with unhurried confidence, posture relaxed but unyielding.
Catherine bristled. She hurried after him, frustration boiling over. “Lance, don’t push your luck—ah!”
She moved too fast, her legs giving out, sending her stumbling forward.
Lance calmly reached out, his arm snaking around to catch her.
“What’s this? Want to settle the score a few more times?” he teased quietly. “Better not—I doubt you could take it.”
His palm pressed around her slender waist, coaxing a shiver that mingled heat with embarrassment.

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