He picked up the spoon like he was handling a set of fine china and not a hunk of steel and dipped it into the bowl, swirling around the liquid. “There’s carrots too.”
In my profession, I was highly sought after, the very best at what I did. My bank account was proof. But suddenly, the millions I’d amassed for all the jobs well done seemed insignificant to the value he seemed to place on this paltry bowl of overprocessed soup.
It made me angry, to be honest. Angry something so simple meant so much to him and angry the soup wasn’t homemade.
The sound of obnoxious slurping filled the kitchen, and I grimaced.
“Mmm. Oh my God,” he moaned. “This is the best soup I’ve ever had.” He shoved another heaping spoonful into his mouth, slurping as he pulled it free. The action made my dick stir. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“No,” I rasped. “Eat it all.”
He grabbed up a cracker, shoved the entire thing in his mouth, and then crushed another in his hand and dropped the crumbles into his soup. The entire time he ate, he wiggled in the chair and made noises of appreciation.
“When’s the last time you ate?” I asked, wondering why he seemed like a starved animal.Completely mannerless.
He paused and tilted his head as though he had to think about it. “Yesterday,” he concluded and went back to eating.
Astonished, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. “You haven’t eatenat alltoday?”
He shrugged and shoveled more soup and crackers into his mouth.
I went to the fridge and pulled it open, scanning the contents, and reached for the last container of rice pudding. This wasnotprepackaged but homemade. I tried not to eat many sweets, butwhen I did, I made them at home to try and eliminate all the crap they dumped in food these days.
I took off the lid and placed the glass bowl in the microwave. Halfway through, I stirred it and put it back in to warm the rest of the way. Once finished, I added a splash of cream and sprinkled cinnamon and sugar over the top. The smell was incredible and made me want to take a bite.
Instead, I slid it beside the now-empty bowl of soup. “Eat that too,” I ordered.
He dove in without even asking what it was and moaned more than the actors in a porno.
Completely indecent.But so erotic.
“I don’t know what this is, but I think it’s my new favorite,” he said, spoon scraping against the bowl. “I just got a raisin!”
“They’re good fiber,” I told him as warmth flooded my limbs from watching him enjoy something I’d made.
This was how you kept things alive, right? You fed them. And not from a can but with the effort of your own hands.
When all the food was gone, I pointed to the untouched glass of water.
“I’m already hydrated,” he whined. “My organs are floating!”
Ridiculous.“Drink it.”
Sighing heavily, he swiped the glass and downed it without even a breath. When he was finished, he looked at me, and I nodded. “Good doll.”
A fine blush bloomed over his already pink cheeks, turning the rash a full-blown shade of red.
“I’m not a doll,” he grumped, sliding off the stool. The second his feet hit the ground, he swayed, knocking into the seat he’d just vacated.
I tsked and moved to loop my arm around his waist and pull him in, our bodies pressing together this way for the first time. Our significant size difference was noticeable but amere afterthought to the way he felt against me. The longer I remained in his presence, seeing his unabashed reactions to literally everything, hearing him moan, and being tempted by the narrow collarbone exposed by the too-large neckline of my sweatshirt, the more I had to remind myself that he had a head injury. That he needed rest.
I could not under any circumstances carry him to my bed and mark him all over, make him mine.
“Are you still feeling dizzy?” I asked, voice giving away the desire I felt.
“I just stood up too fast,” he replied, trying to step away.
I tightened my grip, keeping him close. “To me, you are,” I murmured.
