“Good girl,” I murmur, letting the words drip between us like honey and poison. Her fork halts, caught midair, like praise itself is more dangerous than my threats.
She sets her jaw and takes the bite anyway.
I smirk. “That’s two.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp as broken glass. “Stop counting.”
I lean down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Make me.”
Her breath stutters, but she stabs another bite like she’s trying to wound the plate instead of me. I watch her chew slowly and stubbornly, and I count louder this time.
“Three.”
She swallows hard. “You’re theatrical.”
“Four.”
Her hand clenches around the fork. She tries to ignore me, focusing on the food like if she eats fast enough, she’ll get out from under me. But she doesn’t eat fast. She eats as if she’s dragging her feet into quicksand, because she knows I want her trapped right here.
I ghost my fingers along the inside of her thigh under the table. She flinches, almost drops her fork.
“Careful,” I whisper. “If it hits the floor, you’ll eat it out of my hand. On your knees. In front of the window.”
Her fork stills. Her throat works, a thin line of heat crawling up her neck.
Then—slowly, with a flicker of something reckless in her eyes—she takes another bite. Chews, swallows, defiance rolling off her in waves.
“Five.”
I laugh under my breath, dark and low, sliding my hand higher, close enough to make her thighs press together under the table. “You’re shaking already, baby girl. What happens when you reach ten?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to—the way she stabs her fork down again is all the reply I need.
“Six.”
I hum approval, brushing my knuckles over her inner thigh like I’m playing with fire. “Such a desperate little thing. Eating so good for me. Does it make you wet knowing she has no idea?”
Her fork nearly slips, the piece of toast wobbling before she forces it into her mouth. Her glare is molten, cheeks flushed.
I grin, teeth bared. “Seven.”
She chews as if she’s swallowing broken glass. And all I can think about is how much prettier she’s going to look when I finally push her too far.
The front door shut ten minutes ago, Kate’s laughter still echoing faintly in the house before the car pulled away. I haven’t told Brooklyn she’s safe now. I haven’t told her she can breathe easier.
Because she isn’t safe. Not with me.
She sits across from me, her plate still half full. I lean back in my chair like I’ve got all the time in the world, watching her cut another piece with trembling fingers.
“Eight,” I drawl, slow, deliberate.
Her lashes flick up, eyes burning, lips pressed tight. She chews as if she wants to bite through me instead of the food.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
Her fork slams down against the plate, metal clanging. “Stop calling me that.”
I laugh, low and dangerous. “But you are. Sitting here, doing exactly what I tell you. My good girl, eating so sweet for me while your best friend is miles away, never knowing what I’ve done to you.”
