Sighing, I get out of bed and leave the room. I head downstairs where Lyla is preparing breakfast.
"Mr. Marini," she says, surprised. "I was about to bring Mrs. Marini her tray?—"
"I'll take it." I survey what she's prepared. Coffee, toast, fruit. "Add a pastry. One of those chocolate ones she likes."
Lyla's eyebrows raise but she complies, adding a pain au chocolat to the tray.
I carry it back upstairs. Gemma's still asleep when I enter, but she stirs as I set the tray on the nightstand.
"What time is it?" she mumbles. I smirk. My wife is not a morning person. Before nine, and coffee, she's barely alive.
"Eight," I say. "I brought you breakfast."
She sits up, blinking sleep from her eyes. Her gaze lands on the tray. "I'm not really hungry?—"
"Eat anyway. You didn't eat anything last night." I sit on the edge of the bed, pick up the pastry. "Open."
She stares at me. "What?"
"Open your mouth."
"Saint, I can feed myself?—"
"When I want you to feed yourself, you will. For now, I want to feed you."
Her jaw tightens, and I think she will refuse, but after a beat, she opens her mouth with a roll of her eyes.
I tear off a piece of the pastry and place it on her tongue. She chews slowly, watching me with those silver eyes of hers.
"Good girl," I say, tearing off another piece.
"I'm not a child."
"Can't you just enjoy this without arguing?" I feed her another piece, my eyes not leaving her. There's something sensual about the way her tongue wraps around my finger and licks the flaky pastry from my skin.
"Coffee," I say, handing her the cup.
She takes it, cradles it in both hands, and she looks at me skeptically. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This." She gestures between us, brow high. "It's unlike you."
I tell her the truth, leaning forward, licking her lips slightly. She tastes like chocolate and butter.
"Because you're mine. And I take care of what's mine."
She drinks the coffee, silently, but I see the way her shoulders relax slightly. The way she leans into the statement.
Good. Let her think this is normal possessiveness. Not the complicated thing it actually is.
"I need to get to the office," I tell her, standing. There's a bit of disappointment in her face, and I don't like it, so I deviate from my plans.
"We're going out tonight."
"We are?" she asks. "Where?"
"Does it matter?"
