CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Red
Blue wears the moment like a challenge. Pink color highlights her cheeks. Her posture's relaxed, and there's a dangerous composure to her. It's the kind that comes only after surrender, when the body settles, and the eyes stay wild.
"You need to eat," I say, popping off the couch and moving toward the kitchen. Motion and tasks help. If I stop or look at her too long, I'll start rewriting the last ten minutes in my head.
I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and twist the cap off harder than necessary, gazing over at Blue.
I crossed another line.
My eyes drag across Blue's naked body, draped across my sofa. The taste of her pussy's still fresh on my tongue but my mouth waters for more. I expect guilt to pop up, but to my surprise, my cock stays hard, and my mind drifts into a familiar fantasy, where she wears the white lingerie she made.
She turns her head, meets my eyes, and asks, "Is the steak still warm?"
I put my hand over the foil, and warmth floods my palm. "Yeah. It's perfect," I answer, then carry the plate back into the living room, assessing her further.
She's so calm right now.
She got what she wanted.
She wanted me in her ass.
Jesus Christ.
I set the plate down on the coffee table, careful not to let my fingers brush hers. "Time to eat, Bluebird."
Her mouth doesn't quite smile. One corner lifts first, slow and deliberate, while the rest of her face stays composed. Her smile lingers just long enough to make it clear. She knows exactly what she's doing, and she's enjoying it. "Yes, Doctor."
My jaw locks. I pick up the water and hold it out to her, ordering, "Drink first."
She takes it, deliberately letting her fingers skim my wrist. A jolt of fresh tingles prick my skin all the way up my arm. She tilts the bottle back, swallows, and her stare never leaves mine.
This isn't aftercare.
This is provocation disguised as compliance.
"Two more sips," I demand when she lowers the bottle, needing to reinforce I'm in charge.
She obeys, utilizing her obedience as her favorite weapon, bats her lashes, and taunts, "Is there anything else I can do for you?" She glances at my cock.
Heat drums through me in a sharp, relentless rhythm. I decide to sit in the armchair across from her instead of beside her, needing distance to reinforce my control over this situation. I remove the foil from her plate, then lace my fingers together to keep them still. "Eat your steak."
For a moment, there's only the soft sound of her fork against the plate, and the flicker of candlelight I should have blown out already.
I glance at the wadded ball of red lace and satin, evidence of my failed restraint.
Why don't I feel guilty?
Out of duty to my profession, I declare, "You can't do this again."
She pauses mid-bite and arches her eyebrows. "Do what?"
"You know exactly what I mean," I retort, keeping my voice level.
"Cook you dinner?" She purses her lips.
"You can't break into my home, manufacture a crisis, or use therapeutic language to justify escalation."
