I eat. I eat because I’m starving. I eat because I’m scared. I eat because sitting on his lap, surrounded by his scent, feeling the heat of his body seeping into mine, is intoxicating in a way I can't admit.
Then, his hand moves.
The hand that isn't holding the fork—the large, warm hand resting on my waist—slides down.
It smooths over the silk of my nightgown, tracing the curve of my hip. Then it slides under the hem.
I freeze, a piece of meat halfway down my throat. I choke, coughing.
Silas pats my back gently, but his other hand doesn't stop. It moves up my bare thigh. His skin is rough, calloused, creating a friction that sends sparks shooting through my nerves.
"Keep eating," he orders softly.
He offers me another bite.
"Silas, don't," I whisper. "Marta... Marta could come in."
"Marta knows better," he says. "And if she comes in? Let her see. You are my wife. There is no shame in a husband touching his wife."
His fingers climb higher. Inner thigh. Soft, sensitive skin.
My breath hitches. My legs instinctively try to close, but the position makes it impossible. I am splayed open for him.
He reaches the apex of my thighs. I’m not wearing panties. The nightgown was all he gave me.
He finds me.
He groans low in his throat. "So wet. Always so wet for me, even when you’re fighting."
"It’s not... it’s just..."
"Biology?" He mocks my earlier excuse. "Call it what you want. I call it submission."
He begins to stroke me. Not gentle circles this time, but a firm, possessive rhythm. He finds my clit and claims it.
"Eat," he says again, holding the fork to my lips.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. "I can't."
"Yes, you can. Chew. Swallow. Come for me."
He pushes the fork against my lips.
I open my mouth. I take the food.
The sensation is overwhelming. The taste of the rich food on my tongue, the heat of the fire on my back, and his fingers working magic between my legs. It’s sensory overload. It’s depraved.
"That’s it," he whispers against my ear, biting the lobe. "Be a good girl. Take what I give you."
He increases the pressure.
A whimper escapes my throat. I drop the fork (when did I take it?). I clutch his shirt, burying my face in his neck to stifle the sounds.
"Don't hide," he growls. "Let me hear you."
The door to the kitchen swings open.
I freeze. My entire body goes rigid.
