Boris waves her off. “Details.”
I arch a brow and step farther into the room. “You cook now?”
She scoffs, ladling deep red soup into a bowl. “I follow instructions. Boris here is my unpaid sous chef.”
“Unpaid?” Boris mutters. “This is crime.”
I snort and lean against the counter. “You sure you didn’t poison it?”
She gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Wow. That’s how you greet the woman who slaved over a hot stove for you?”
I tilt my head, smirk tugging at my mouth. “Slaved? You look like you enjoyed every second.”
She lifts her chin. “Maybe I did. And now—if you’re lucky—I’ll let you eat.”
She sets the bowl in front of me with a flourish, barely containing her excitement. She wants me to try it. Wants me to sit, to eat, and to make this normal.
Normal has never been my thing.
I take a bite. It’s good—rich, balanced, and familiar—but my attention is already drifting back to her. The way she watches me like she’s pretending not to care. The way her tongue slips out to wet her lips when she gets impatient.
I set the spoon down slowly.
“You know,” I say quietly, “this would probably taste even better off you.”
She freezes. Just for a heartbeat. Then her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
Boris chuckles from across the room.
I don’t look away from her. “You heard me.”
She crosses her arms, but her cheeks are already flushed. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet,” I say, pushing away from the counter, “you’re still standing right there.”
Boris clears his throat, grabbing his coat. “I go now.” He shakes his head as he heads for the door. “Young people.”
The door clicks shut.
Silence stretches—tight and electric.
I move toward her. She doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t flinch. That fire in her eyes twists something dark and hungry in my chest.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She tilts her head. “Make me.”
So I do.
I grip her waist, lift her onto the table in one smooth motion, and step between her legs. Her breath stutters, but she doesn’t fight me. My hands slide up her thighs, slow, deliberate, and claiming.
“You think feeding me gives you an upper hand?” I murmur against her skin, lips brushing her jaw. “That’s cute.”
She shivers, trying to sound unimpressed. “You think feeding you gives you a claim?”
I tug her closer until she’s flush against me. “I think you like this more than you want to admit.”
She opens her mouth to snap back, but I don’t give her the chance. I push her dress up, hands spreading her thighs, and her breath hitches sharp and fast.
