Page 78

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether she is playing with Daddy or not.”

Alessia moved the second pen.

“I’m playing.”

I took her wrist.

“Then Daddy should probably deal with his naughty pet.”

I led her by the wrist into the kitchen. The air was still faintly scented with the leftover rosemary and garlic from the night before. The bowl I selected was one I used for dough—a wide, shallow ceramic thing that was heavy enough that it wouldn’t tip if nudged by a foot. Her eyes followed my every movement as I opened the refrigerator and took out the leftovers from the night before.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m feeding my pet.”

I spooned a portion of the pasta into the bowl, then a few of the dumplings beside it. I heated it in the microwave for a minute and pulled it out. Then I carried the bowl to the thick, cream-colored runner in front of the sink and set it on the floor.

Alessia stared at it.

Her gaze lifted to mine. She looked more intrigued than offended, which was one of the things I was beginning to understand about her. A direct threat made her angry. A game of power, even when she was on the losing end, made her curious.

“Naughty girls don’t eat at the table,” I said quietly. “They eat on the floor.” I gestured to the bowl. “Like a good little pet.”

She wet her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. Then she looked from the bowl on the floor to my face, and back again. She was testing me, seeing how far she could push, seeing if I would break, but I wouldn’t. I just stood there, my expression calm, my hands loose at my sides, and waited.

She swallowed visibly and lowered her eyes, choosing surrender in that moment. She sank slowly to her knees, her movements graceful even in this. She knelt on the runner, her back straight, her hands resting on her thighs.

I crouched down in front of her, reached into the bowl, and picked up a single piece of pasta coated in the tomato and rosemary sauce. My fingers were slick with the warm sauce as I brought them to her lips.

She hesitated for only a second before her mouth opened, her tongue darting out to take the offering. Her lips closed around my fingers, and she looked up at me, her eyes dark, her lips parted slightly as she swallowed.

My control felt like a fraying rope.

I fed her another piece of pasta. Then another. She took each one without protest, her gaze locked on mine, her breath coming in soft, shallow pants. The air in the kitchen grew thick, charged with a dark, intoxicating current. I wiped my fingers on a napkin, my eyes never leaving hers. Then I stood up.

“Finish your meal, my little pet,” I said, my voice a low growl. “But remember, good little pets don’t use their hands.”

After visibly swallowing, her eyes locked with mine for just a second, challenge visible within them. But after a moment, she lowered her face to the bowl, her dark hair falling around her face like a curtain. For a moment, the wet sound of her eating was the only sound in the room. I watched the muscles in her back tense and release with each swallow, and then I watched the curve of her bottom sway in a perfect, tempting arc, teasing me with her flawless little body.

My cock was a hard, insistent ache against my trousers.

She ate every last bit of the pasta, her tongue cleaning the bowl with a thoroughness that was both humbling and utterly captivating. When she was done, she lifted her head, her lips glistening with the sauce, her gaze meeting mine. Her eyes were dark and full of surrender so complete it was almost terrifying.

She was waiting for me.

I reached down and cupped her chin, my thumb wiping a smear of sauce from the corner of her mouth. I brought my thumb to my own lips and tasted the rosemary and garlic and the faint salt of her skin.

“Stand up,” I dictated.

She rose to her feet, her body moving in a fluid, graceful motion. When she stood before me, she bowed her head and clasped her hands behind her back. The black leather collar was a stark, beautiful line against her skin.

“Strip for Daddy.”

It was a command, not a request.