“Did you eat this morning?”
“No.” And I’m not used to that. I eat breakfast every morning. It’s part of my routine. Something about that makes the buzz in my head grow.
“Hey. Look at me.” I don’t, but then Colton’s hand is beneath my chin, tilting my head up so I can’t deny him. “Focus on me. Breathe with me,” he instructs before taking a deep breath in…and damned if I don’t do the same. When he exhales, I do that with him too. “That’s it. You’re being so fucking good for me. Do it again, just like last time. Breathe real slow with me.”
I do it again, then a third time and a fourth, letting Colton walk me through this, letting him relax me, pull me out of my head and give me something to focus on.
“Good boy. One more,” he says, pulling air into his lungs, then letting it out.
My vision clears, my heart slows. I nuzzle my cheek into his hand before realizing what I’m doing and pushing the rolling chair away from him.
“What the fuck was that? Don’t. We can’t.”
Colton frowns. “That wasn’t about sex. I’m not trying to hit on you. I just…you need to eat. Don’t do that again. No matter what happens, you’re to eat breakfast every morning before you come in.”
He has no business telling me that, and I have none wanting to listen. I’ve never had a Dom tell me to eat before, but then, I’ve never had any kind of relationship with Doms outside of the occasional random scene. This is…different.
“Do you hear me? I want you to eat every day. Breakfast is important.”
I scoff. He’s a child. My student, telling me to eat. “What I do or don’t isn’t your concern.” I stand, straighten my suit, wish I hadn’t liked being told what to do, hadn’t liked being his good boy. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
He watches me, forehead pinched, stare intense. I see his hand twitch, wonder if he wants to spank me for not listening, andGod, do I crave that.
“Get out, Mr. Hathaway,” I say, using his last name to build more of a wall between us.
“Eat,” he says again, before walking out of the room.
I don’t leave my office until it’s time for class, and when I get there, an apple and a bagel are waiting for me on the desk. As soon as I get a chance, I eat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
James
Colton wasn’t inclass on Wednesday.
There’s an insulated lunch bag on the desk in my classroom when I arrive on Thursday. I frown at it, wondering whose it is or how it got there, but when I get closer, I see an envelope on the top with my name on it. I look around the room as though expecting someone to jump out and play a joke on me. When that doesn’t happen, I rip open the envelope and tug out the note.
V,
I packed you a ham and cheese sandwich and some fruit. If you didn’t eat breakfast, eat this before class begins. If you already ate, save it for lunch and have it then. No excuses. I expect you’ll do the right thing.
C
Shivers attack every inch of my skin, running down my spine and leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. There’s no question who this is from. Did he put theVfor my last name because I’d insisted he call me professor? Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even have a class with me today.
My first instinct is to pick up the bag and throw it away,but my hand lingers over the trash can, the strap on the bag feeling glued to my fingers. I did have breakfast before we left the house this morning. It was quiet, neither Nash nor Sadie speaking to me, but at least we didn’t have any drama. I didn’t bring lunch, though. I’d planned to grab something here. It would be silly to let the food go to waste.
Don’t do this. You’re not an idiot, James. You know what he’s trying to do, and the last thing you need is one of your students to tell you when and what to eat.
I shove the bag in a desk drawer, where I can pretend it’s not there, then pull out my laptop and set up the PowerPoint presentation. About fifteen minutes later, students begin filing into the room. Colton only has the one class with me, so I won’t see him again until Monday. That will give him time to get over whatever this food thing is—and why am I thinking about that when I should be preparing for my lesson?
Once this class is over, I drink a bottle of water and then proceed with the next one. I have three on Thursdays. My stomach is growling after my second class, and as I begin to pack my things to head for the dining hall, my gaze flickers to the drawer. I do have work to do. It would be easier to eat what Colton packed, before my appointment with my TA.
That’s what I tell myself, but I know the truth, know that there’s a part of me that wants to eat what Colton packed because he made it for me. He took the time to make me food when that’s not something many people, if anyone, has ever done for me. And on top of that is the truth that I want to do as he told me. I want to be good for him—not him specifically, but someone—because it makes me feel better…proud…like little parts of me are clicking into place.
Without letting myself think about it anymore, I jerk the bag from the drawer and go straight to my office, locking the door behind me. The lunch box taunts me as I set it on mydesk, watching it like I expect the thing to begin performing for me.
“What the fuck am I doing?” I say into the empty room. This man is messing with my head. I sit in the chair and open the damn thing. There’s an ice pack keeping the sandwich fresh, cut-up strawberries in a container, and another with pasta salad, which he didn’t mention in his note.
