“I want to bring food to his study.”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t recommend that. When he’s like this, he prefers to be alone.”
“It’s fine. If he gets mad, I won’t push him.” I have nothing to lose.
I fill one plate with tartines and another with braciole. There are other dishes, but I’m not sure he’ll even want to eat, so I only take the ones I like best. Then I head for his study.
I balance the plates on one arm and knock.
“Come in.” His cold voice comes from within.
I open the door and step in awkwardly, careful to keep my balance. Once inside, I take the plates in both hands and look at him.
He’s already watching me.
“I brought you lunch,” I manage to say, keeping my voice steady despite my nerves.
“Who asked you to?”
I step closer.
“No one. It was me, myself, and I who made this executive decision on behalf of your stomach, which must be growling by now.”
I set the plates beside his keyboard and stand next to his chair, then gesture grandly toward the food.
“Please eat, master. If you’d like, I can arrange some background music as well.”
Not a hint of softening crosses his face at my attempt to lighten the mood.
I pick up the plate of tartines, take one, and extend it toward his mouth.
“It’s so good. The toasted Poilâne has the perfect crunch. The butter will melt on your tongue the moment it touches.”
I make a dreamy face. “Salty, creamy, sweet.”
I lick my lips. This thirst trap is working better on me than on him—he looks completely unmoved. I gaze at the beauty in my hand.
“And look at the figs on top—sticky, honeyed. They’ll collapse when you bite them. And the ricotta—” I swallow the pool of saliva threatening to spill. “Just eat it,” I finish quickly, extending it further.
When he doesn’t pull back, I grow bolder and touch it to his lips. He hasn’t looked at it once, just keeps staring at me.
Thankfully, he opens his mouth.
I grin and place the piece inside. He bites down, chews slowly, then takes another bite. I watch him with a happy smile, my hand still extended.
When he finishes, I extend my hand further. He takes the last bite, his lips brushing my fingers. I pull away, but not before noting their softness.
Yes. They’ll feel incredible when I finally get to kiss them.
I lick my lips again. This time in desire to taste something else.
Get a fucking grip, you horny, lonely woman.My conscience snaps at me.
I blink myself out of the trance I’ve fallen into. I’m sure this man doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s doing to me.Does Stockholm syndrome work both ways, or is this messed-up thing only for captives and not for captors?
I take a deep breath, shove my useless thoughts aside, and give him an encouraging smile, then pat his head.
“Good boy.”
