Heat flooded my cheeks. "You're paying too much attention."
"I pay attention to everything about you." He set the fork down and picked up a piece of bread, tearing it into smaller pieces. "The way your breath catches when I get close. How your nipples are hard even though you're not cold. The way you're pressing your thighs together right now, trying to get friction."
Shit, I was.
"Stop," he commanded softly.
I forced my thighs to relax, to spread as wide as the ankle restraints would allow.
"Better." He held the bread to my lips. "Open."
I bit into it, and he pulled it away before I could take the whole piece, making me chase it with my mouth. The game continued—him offering, me reaching, him withdrawing until I made a small frustrated sound.
"Patience," he murmured. "Good girls get fed. Greedy girls go hungry."
"I'm being patient," I protested.
"Are you?" He held the bread just out of reach. "Then ask nicely."
Having to ask for something that I should have been given felt silly. Petty. Slightly degrading. "Please, sir. May I have the bread?"
"You may." He let me take a bite, and the simple act of being allowed felt like a reward. "See how easy that is? You ask. I decide. You accept my decision."
It felt demeaning. Yet, safe. Not cruel. A balance of offer and praise. It felt freeing. He fed me roasted asparagus that he made me eat from his fingers, cherry tomatoes that burst in my mouth, zucchini that he'd drag across my lower lip first before letting me have it.
"You're making a mess," he observed, and I realized he was right.
There was sauce on my chin, a smear of something at the corner of my mouth. A mess that he’d clearly made that was now my fault. I bit my lip, curious of the consequence. Otherwise, why bring it up?
"Sorry, sir."
"Don't be sorry." He set the plate aside and stepped closer, crowding into my space until his thighs bracketed mine. "I'll take care of it."
Then his mouth was on mine. Not a kiss exactly, but something more possessive. His tongue swept along my lower lip, licking away the sauce. Then to the corner of my mouth. Then my chin, cleaning every trace with slow, deliberate attention. I whimpered against him, straining against the ropes, wanting to touch him so badly it hurt.
"Stay still," he commanded against my lips. "Let me work."
His mouth moved lower, to my throat where apparently I'd gotten sauce as well. How had I managed that? His tongue traced patterns that made me gasp. Then lower still, to the swell of my breasts above my bra.
"Fucking gorgeous," he muttered, his breath hot against my skin. "And all mine for the next—" he checked his watch without moving away from me, "—twenty-something hours."
An eternity. A blink. Not enough if this was how he was going to pamper me. His teeth scraped against the sensitive skin at the top of my breast, and I arched into him involuntarily.
"Eager," he pulled back to look at me.
My lips were swollen, my breathing ragged, and I could feel how wet I was, probably soaking through the lace of my panties.
"Yes, sir."
"Mhm..." He picked up the plate again. "We're not done eating yet."
"Dez—" It came out as a whine.
"That's not what you call me." His voice went hard, and the shift made my stomach flip. "Try again."
"Sir. Please, sir."
"Please what?"
