Chapter1
They Always Ruin It
IRIS
My motheralways told me not to play with my food. She said it’s impolite, unbecoming of a young lady.Greedy, was her exact word.
She said I should be grateful for what I am given, to smile politely, and say ‘thank you.’
But what would she know? She starved to death.
“Gods, you’re so fuckin’ hot.”
Grey’s voice interrupts my concentration, cutting off the little energy I’ve managed to siphon from him.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking Iris Ashbourne.”
My eyes roll as I look down at him.
I wouldn’t call what we’re doing fucking. Hells, I wouldn’t even call this feeding.
For the last fifteen minutes, Oliver St. Grey has been kneeling in front of me, grinding himself against the top of my boot like a rabid dog. And for the past fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds, I have been imagining that he is anyone other than Oliver St. Grey.
At nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, with a newly minted reputation for collecting women like stamps, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I agreed to meet him here.
I thought he might be hesitant—boys are usually nervous their first time with me—or eager, sometimes too eager.
But I can say with certainty, I wasn’t expectingthis.
Given Grey’s tendency to brag about his conquests, I expected him to be more… confident? Or maybe the word I’m looking for is skilled. And while, admittedly, his handhasfound its way up my skirt, it has yet to locate anything of significance.
“Be quiet,” I command, pressing my foot into his crotch.
He whimpers before biting down on his lower lip in an effort to comply.
Gods, he’s so pathetic.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a good grovel just as much as the next girl, but the easy ones really ruin it for me.
What’s the fun in getting them on their knees if they don’t make you work for it?
That’s not to say Grey is the worst I’ve ever had. That title goes to Melancholy Mike.
Of course, that’s not his real name. Just the one Elsie and I gave him, which he more than earned after crying every time I fed from him.
At first, it was kind of fun. The pent-up energy from his tears gave me more to draw from. But I had to let him go once I realized the crying was turning him on more than I was.
Shame really, he tasted good—salty.
Grey, on the other hand, tastes sweet. Almost sickly so.
I wonder if it has anything to do with all the groveling. Or maybe it’s his lack of a spine.
I can practically see him melting into a puddle on my shoe.
Ew.
Thank fate these are leather. They’ll need cleaning later.
