“Here.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“You can barely stand.” His voice is mild. He sounds reasonable. And infuriating. “You’ll slide off a normal chair and crack your head. This is... efficient.”
The smell of the food hits me. Hot fat. Roasted herbs. Warm bread. Citrus. My knees actually buckle, and I have to grab the edge of the table to stay upright.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer to help. Just watches me fight with myself from that chair.
My body makes the choice before my pride can object again.
I lower myself onto his lap.
Sideways. Perched on his thighs like a child on Santa’s knee, which is somehow both better and worse than straddling him.
One of his arms comes around my waist. Not gripping, just... steadying. A warm, solid band across my stomach. The other rests near the plate. His thighs are solid beneath me, while the press of his chest against my back is a wall of heat soaking through the thin dress.
My body, overwhelmed by contact after six days of isolation and pain, responds with a coiling awareness that is absolutely not hunger.
No. Absolutely not. This is survival. This is humiliation.
You do not like this. You do not like him.
My pulse flutters where his forearm crosses my stomach. I can feel it beating against his sleeve.
He feels it too. The muscles of his arm tighten slightly. I hear the faintest hitch in his breathing.
He doesn’t comment.
He cuts a small piece of chicken. Brings the fork to my mouth.
“Open.”
“I can feed myself.”
“You’ll inhale it and vomit.” He holds the fork steady. “I’d like to avoid that.”
The smell is too much. My jaw unlocks before I can stop it, and I take the bite.
Taste explodes on my tongue.
Salt. Fat. Lemon. Heat. The crisp skin gives way to tender meat, and flavors I’d forgotten existed flood my mouth.
My eyes sting with sudden tears.
My body leans back. Just a fraction, just an inch, seeking support without permission. His hand spreads more firmly over my waist, holding me against him.
He waits until I swallow before giving me the next bite.
Controlling the pace, controlling everything.
His palm stays broad and warm across my abdomen. When my stomach cramps and I bend forward with a gasp, he holds me through it. The warmth seeps through the thin dress, spreading into my skin, and it’scomforting.
That comfort horrifies me.
My stomach tightens beneath his hand, and my thighs tense slightly where they rest over his. A minute shift of my hips to ease some internal ache I refuse to name.
He hardens beneath me. Unmistakable reaction.
