Her breath shudders. She grabs her fork again just to spite me, stabbing into the toast, lifting it to her lips. She takes the bite without breaking eye contact.
“Nine.”
Her throat works as she swallows, the heat in her glare melting into something softer, needier. She hates it—God, she hates it. But she wants it too. I can see it in the way her knees shift under the table, thighs pressing tight like she can smother the ache building there.
I slide my hand across the table, hook a finger under her chin, tilt her face to me. “One more,” I murmur, voice rough silk. “Ten. And then I decide what happens to you.”
Her lips part, ragged breath escaping.
She looks down at the plate, back up at me, a war raging in her eyes. Her hand shakes as she cuts another piece, smaller this time, deliberate. She raises it, hesitates, then pushes it between her lips.
Slow.
She chews, every movement exaggerated like she knows I’m watching the way her jaw works, the way her tongue moves.
I whisper the number like a brand.
“Ten.”
Her fork clatters against the plate.
My hand is on her thigh before she can blink, sliding higher, forcing her legs apart under the table. She gasps, jerks back, but I grip her chin tighter, forcing her to look at me.
“You did so well, baby girl,” I murmur, leaning in close enough to taste her breath. “Now—do you want your reward…or your punishment?”
The fork barely has time to settle against porcelain before I shove the plate aside. It scrapes across the table, the clatter sharp enough to make her jump.
Her eyes go wide. “What?—”
I cut her off by dragging the plate the rest of the way, shoving it to the floor with a crash that echoes through the room. Food splatters, crumbs scattering across the polished wood.
“You’re done,” I growl, voice gravel-dark.
She jerks back in her chair, breathing ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. “You—you said ten?—”
“And you gave me ten.” I lean across the table, my hand finding the back of her chair, caging her in. “But don’t ever think you get to stop because the game’s over. I decide when you stop, baby girl.”
Her lips part, no sound coming out at first. “You’re just playing a game.”
My mouth curves. “Maybe.” I drag the chair back with her still in it, the legs screeching over the floor, her body jolting at the sound. She gasps as I push her away from the table, leaving her open, bare for me. “Or maybe I’m the only one here who’s honest about what I want.”
I grip her knees, shove them apart. She clutches the edge of the chair like it’ll anchor her.
“You wanted this too,” I snarl, lowering myself between her thighs, voice edged with accusation. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Brooklyn. Don’t sit here shaking, wet, starving for me and tell me you don’t want it.”
Her nails scrape the chair arms. “I shouldn’t?—”
“You shouldn’t,” I agree, my mouth ghosting against the inside of her thigh, my words vibrating against her skin. “But you will.”
She whimpers, a sound she tries to swallow but can’t. I grip her chin again, tilting her head back so she has no choice but to look at me.
“You’re mine now. Plate’s gone. Rules are gone. It’s just you and me, baby girl, and you’ll take every single thing I give you.”
I press my thumb to her lips, slide it inside, force her tongue down under the weight of me. Her eyes flutter, her breath catches, and I know—fuck, I know—I’ve got her.
“Swallow,” I whisper. “Show me.”
Her throat bobs around my thumb, the sound obscene in the quiet of the dining room. The shattered plate lies forgotten on the floor, but the echo of it still hangs between us like a warning.
