I imagine my teeth marking her delicate neck. Then soothing the sting with my tongue.
"Good morning, Sebastian." My name in her mouth turns my heart into a pumping, rutting beast.
I lean back, thighs tight, teeth grinding. "You called me something else last night.”
I see her chest flutter with a sudden breath, pink rising across the pale, freckled skin along the tops of her cheeks. Her pupils dilate as her lips part, and every instinct tells me to shove my cock between them and force her to suck.
Instead, I grind out the words. “What did you call me last night, Larissa?”
“Daddy,” she whispers, and something in her demeanor shifts.
“Good girl,” I answer, trying to ignore the sticky warmth that’s gathering between the tip of my cock and my boxers. “You willuse that as my title at all times. Did Maria tell you my name?” She nods, and I’m still amazed that she was able to extract that bit of information from the iron lady of the Mediterranean.
This girl has powers we didn’t anticipate.
"Now. Let's talk about your breakfast."
She glances at her plate. Yogurt, figs, melon, egg, bread. Maybe three bites eaten.
"I'm not hungry."
Liar.
I fist my hands on the wooden tabletop next to the platter of grapes. "When's the last time you ate?”
Her jaw sets in that stubborn line. I want to grab it, want to hold her face still while I—
No. Not yet.
"I eat."
"You pick. You push food around." I lean in, and her breathing changes, gets quicker. I’ve trained many girls, this is not new, but this miscalculation of weight to value has never angered me to the point of violence like it does now. "Starving yourself to meet your family’s ridiculous standards."
"You don't know—"
"I know everything." My voice drops, and I watch her nipples tighten beneath the thin fabric of her dress.
Good girl.
The dress shifts when she breathes, and I imagine my tongue tracing the line down her sternum, turning left to address that hard peak, then right to give equal time to the other one.
"You're eighteen. You weigh less than you did at sixteen." I pause, remembering every minute detail of her medical records I demanded from Hoover before I would agree to take her on. "Who made you ashamed to eat, Larissa?”
She shrugs. “Mom. Hoover. Robert. The world.”
“Your stepbrother—" Her face changes, and I see the truth of it written there. "He comments about your body?”
She sets her jaw with a slight upward tick of her shoulder. “Yep.”
Something hot and violent surges through my chest—protective rage mixed with the urge to destroy anyone who's ever hurt her.
"That won’t happen here. But," My voice hardens. I tell myself that’s professional distance kicking in, "you eat what I tell you, when I tell you. This isn't about vanity. It's about keeping you healthy."
Her blue eyes flicker with curiosity. There's a thickness in my throat like I've swallowed sand.
I run a hand through my hair. Her eyes track the movement, and I watch her swallow.
I pick up the fresh baguette to my right, break it open, tearing off a soft inner piece still warm from the oven, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger. "Open."
