Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
BLAKE
Imani’s hand slips out of mine as we walk into Piazza della Scala square.
“Cupcake,” I begin in a warning tone, looking to her ethereal form. She’s dressed up for me in an elegant black A-line dress. “Give me that hand back right now.”
Imani stomps a shiny black heel on the ground, but then slides her delicate brown hand into my large calloused palm. “I can’t fight with you when you’re wearing a motherfucking suit and bow tie.”
“Are you trying to say I don’t normally make your heart race?” I tease, rubbing my thumb over her pulse as I always like to do, and feeling the effect I have on her.
“Ugh. Shut up. You know how much I always want you, much to my chagrin,” Imani admits with a whine.
I throw my head back and cackle in delight, secretly dissecting how fun it’s been to make this ice queen melt and open up for me.
We walk up to the neoclassical building, which is the focal point of the square, gazing upon the Teatro alla Scala, and I keep my cringe to myself—not regarding the building itself, but what is contained within.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Imani hesitates as we make our way to the side entrance with our tickets virtually in hand on my phone.
“Why, Cupcake, how sweet of you to ask,” I grin, evading the question and instead choosing to address her consideration instead.
Imani stops in her tracks and tugs on my hand, making me stop with her and turn to face her. “I’m serious. You hate shit like this. I know you’re only doing it for me, and that’s not fair.”
I grin at her. “Sure it is. I dragged you to a church, remember?”
Imani glares at me. “That ended up being for me, actually. If you recall.”
Bringing my other hand up to her face, I brush my knuckles against her flawless cheek and gaze into the deep pool of her eyes. “No, I don’t recollect it going that way, Cupcake. You gave yourself to me, and it was an unfathomable gift.”
Her eyes are dinner plates in her heart-shaped face. “So this is for me? For repayment?”
“Our relationship is not a transaction. Also, no. This is for me, too.” I tell her, as I move my hand down to encircle her throat.
“You’re a sports gay,” Imani scoffs. “I’m the one who likes the opera, the ballet, and the theatre.”
“You don’t think I can be cultured?” I raise an eyebrow and lean down to get in her space. “This is for me, but I won’t be watching the opera—I’ll be watching you.”
Imani smirks. “Of course. I’ll be doing your favorite thing—crying. Are you going to lick them off of me in a crowded room, too?”
Squeezing her throat in warning, I purr, “Fuck around and find out, Cupcake.”
Yes, let’s go back to silly, fun, sexy. That was getting way too vulnerable, and I don’t really like what my ADHD ass just processed out loud, unable to come to the conclusion in my messy head.
We make our way inside the opera house, settling into our plush seats as we take in our surroundings. The theatre is gorgeous, opulent red velvet everywhere, accented by gold gilding in relief on cream walls, finished off by a monstrously gorgeous chandelier.
“Do you know this one?” I inquire, sneaking my hand under her dress to rest on her silky thigh, needing to feel her skin on mine.
Imani opens her program. “I don’t even know how to pronounce it, truthfully.” She turns the pamphlet to me. Gotterd?mmerung, it reads.
“Do you know what it’s about?” I move on.
“Let’s just go,” she huffs, shoving my hand away and standing up.
“If you don’t sit down right this instant,” I growl—not because I’m frustrated with her consistently trying to “save me” from this, but because I can tell she needs a heavier hand right now.
Imani looks down at me, hesitation in her eyes.
I say nothing, just pat her seat in entreaty.
She sits, but I keep my hand there so I can squeeze her ass when it hits the upholstery.
“Sir!” Imani giggles as I dig my fingers in enough to satisfy her masochism and my need for her.
Moving my hand back to her thigh, I lean in to kiss her on her throat. I follow the sweetness with a harsh bite, which makes her gasp in delight. “Behave yourself, or I will interrupt this performance with one of my own.”
“Yes, Sir,” Imani demurs.
“Thank you. Now tell me what I can expect from an afternoon at the opera,” I demand of her.
As her explanation gets more and more animated, I simply gaze at her in adoration and begin to daydream.
The truth is that lately, I do everything for the stunning creature next to me. I meant all the words I just uttered. Is this what a service top feels like? Yes, I crave Imani on her knees for me, but it’s only so I can see the pleasure of it in her eyes.
Conversely, this might just be what a dynamic looks like when you’re in love? Because when I strapped her the other night, I think I spied her own fall in her devoted gaze. But I don’t know whether to panic, be elated, or door number three: all of the above.
Several problems exist, though. I don’t know if there’s space in Imani’s life for me outside of these two weeks; I’m not even sure what that would look like since we live so far apart and have two opposite schedules; and there’s also the looming of whatever is going on with her “diet,” which I’m beginning to suspect is a much larger issue than the Type A rigid figure skater regularity she pretends it is.
Can those factors even change the reality that I’m sunk for infamous ice queen Imani Gray?
After the opera (Imani did cry, and I did, in fact, lick up her tears, much to the disgusted glances of our fellow audience members), we retire to a nearby restaurant where the now familiar scene of grudging compromise unfolds.
See, here’s the thing. I’m pretty sure Imani is on the figure-skater special: starvation. I’ve been getting her to eat more, and I think it’s paying off. When I can attend a practice with her, her burgeoning strength is evident. I know I can’t be the one to fix her, but…
Goddamn, if I could just get her to eat more. Then she might land that stupid fucking jump without hurting herself and take the gold. And it would give me the ammunition I need to put her in the hands of someone who is certified to care for her health on her road to recovery…
If she would fucking listen to me long enough to agree to get help.
My face is a mask as I consider Imani over our plates of food—the ones I ordered for us as she pouted and threw a fit. In front of me sits Risotto alla Milanese, and her order is Cotoletta alla Milanese.
“I’m not eating this,” she hisses. “It’s fucking breaded.” Imani folds her arms and turns her nose up.
“The last time I checked, you needed carbohydrates to fuel an athletic body. Pretty sure that’s science, Cupcake.” I grin, keeping the facade of levity in place.
“I do just fine without simple carbs, thank you. It’s enough that—” Imani halts her thought, and quickly turns the bratting up to an eleven. “It’s enough that I deign to eat with you when you insist on eating like a garbage disposal.”
I spoon some of the saffron-spiced rice in cream into my mouth with an exaggeration that theatre kids would envy. “Mm. So good. The only thing that would make it better is if I were eating it off your abs.” To emphasize my words, I rake my eyes down the visible portions of Imani’s body.
“You’re an animal,” she attempts to huff, but I hear the laughter she’s trying to hide.
That’s it—I just need her to drop her guard for me. If I can make things silly and sexy, she’s more apt to loosen that rigidity she has around eating and let me fucking feed her.
Thinking of an idea, I crook my finger at her and point to the seat next to me.
“We’re going to look so silly, sitting next to each other,” she hedges before she stands up, smooths out her dress, and delicately folds herself into the chair at my side.
“Now, let’s try this again.” I spoon some risotto up, put a hand underneath it, and bring it to her lips.
“We are not going to be those dykes,” she protests, but when her mouth is open, I shove the spoon into her mouth.
“I think you’ve missed the memo on how I love to be ‘that dyke,’” I say with a waggle of my eyebrows.
“Okay, well, you’re not getting me to eat any more. That’s it,” Imani retorts quickly before clamping her mouth shut.
Moving to her throat, I pepper kisses all over it. “Come on, Cupcake. Just a little more. For your Sir.”
I feel her gulp under my mouth, and I know I have her hooked.
Although how long my sexy tactics are going to work is a question that reverberates through my skull.
We can’t keep this up. This is not the advised course of action for someone with an eating disorder.
I can’t Dom someone into good mental health; that’s not how the fucking world works.
I replace my mouth with my hand, holding her in place to give her an anchor as I feed her more of the dish. Leaning into her ear, I praise her. “Good girl.”
Tears are building in her eyes, but this time I don’t lick them off—this is not a beautiful thing to see. In real time, I’m watching the girl I love fight with her demons as hard as she can to engage in the simple act of eating—a thing most of us do without internal berating or intrusive thoughts.
“Would it make you feel better if you fed Sir?” I ask softly, wondering how I can make this experience less painful for her.
Imani’s big brown eyes widen before she gives me a small smile. “Yes, please, Sir,” she agrees softly.
“Okay, but maybe save the airplane noises for at home. We’re in public, Cupcake,” I whisper in order to keep the jokes coming.
She giggles. “Behave, Sir!”
“Oh ho ho, someone thinks they’re in charge now, do they?” I question with mock-seriousness and squeeze her throat in warning before I pull away.
“Shh. No, no, I don’t, I promise!” Imani’s laughter trills in my ears.
Good. The tears are drying. We are okay. Everything will be okay.
I open my mouth, and she slowly inserts the utensil tip. Serious again, I moan. “Cupcake, this tastes better when you feed it to me.”
She licks her lips, then bites the bottom one.
“Yeah? C’mere. Taste the flavor on me,” I purr, and lean in to grasp her chin, licking into her mouth.
We finish the meal by feeding it to each other, with periodic intermissions of soft kisses and whispered praises.
While I’m paying, she sneaks off to the bathroom, and I suddenly panic. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but what if I’m hurting more than I’m helping? What if I’m causing her to trade restriction for purging?
I follow her and knock on the door.
“Almost ready!” Is the loud response I get, leaning closer into the door to hear her answer.
I pause and frown at the words Imani is mumbling that I am certainly not meant to hear.
“You’re supposed to look nice, but instead our sir is probably embarrassed to be seen with you, you fat pig.
” I hear what sounds like a smack against flesh.
“Look at these saddle bags! Never mind that we are a disgrace to be seen with, but what’s Coach going to say when we are spilling out of our costume?
” A bang reverberates through the wooden paneling of the door—a hit against the mirror, I’m thinking.
“Get your shit together. You can’t keep eating just because they flash those pretty dimples at you or because they bribe you with sex. Do. You. Hear. Me?”
I quickly back away from the door, having heard enough to induce me to resolve.
It’s official—I am so completely out of my depth. I need to figure out how to get Imani professional help—and soon.