Chapter 4
Angelina
" F irst," Dez said, his voice dropping to a commanding tone that made my thighs clench, "we eat."
I blinked. "What?"
"Lunch." He gestured toward the dining area I hadn't noticed before—a sleek table set for two, covered dishes waiting. "You haven't eaten since last night, have you?"
The question caught me off guard. "I... no. I was too nervous."
"I thought so." He moved behind me, his hands going to the lapels of my coat. "Which means you need food. Energy." His breath ghosted across my ear. "You're going to need it."
The coat slid off my shoulders, pooling at my feet. His sharp intake of breath made me feel powerful despite standing there in my slip dress and heels.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his hands hovering over my hips like he was restraining himself from touching. "But you're still wearing too much."
"I—what?"
"The dress." His fingers found the thin straps at my shoulders. "Off."
My heart hammered as I reached down and pulled the silk up and over my head, letting it fall to join my coat.
Now I stood in just my black lace bra, panties, and heels, fully exposed in the afternoon light streaming through those massive windows.
He picked up my dress and coat, pressed them to his nose, and inhaled.
His eyes closed as he continued to breathe in my scent.
When he’d had his fill, he disappeared with them, and returned empty handed.
"Perfect." Dez walked a slow circle around me, his gaze memorizing every inch. "This is how you'll eat lunch. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." The title came out automatically, and I saw his eyes warm with approval.
"Mmm…" He nodded, reassuring me. He moved to one of the dining chairs, sturdy with glossy arms and a high back, and positioned it away from the table. "For you…"
I obeyed, the leather cool against my bare skin. Dez knelt in front of me, and the sight of this powerful man on his knees made my breath catch. But he wasn't submitting. Even kneeling, he radiated control.
"Arms behind your back," he commanded. "Wrists together."
I complied, feeling the vulnerable position immediately as my back arched, breasts pushed forward, completely at his mercy. He produced black silk rope from somewhere hidden, and began binding my wrists with practiced efficiency. The rope was soft but firm, each loop and knot sealing my fate.
"Too tight?" he asked, his fingers checking the circulation.
"No, sir."
"Good." He moved to my ankles next, securing each one to a chair leg with the same careful attention.
When he finished, I was completely immobilized with my wrists bound behind me, ankles spread and tied, unable to do anything except sit there and let him do whatever he wanted.
The position should have terrified me. Instead, I felt myself getting wet.
"Color?" he asked, standing and moving to check his work.
"Green," I whispered.
"Louder."
"Green, sir."
"Perfect." He brushed his knuckles across my cheek in a gesture that was surprisingly tender. "Now, let's see about feeding you."
He moved to the table and uncovered the dishes. The scents hit me immediately—garlic, herbs, something rich and savory that made my stomach growl embarrassingly loud.
Dez smiled. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
"Good, because right now, nothing pleases me more than feeding you." He filled a plate with what looked like pasta in a cream sauce with chicken, roasted vegetables, fresh bread. Returned to stand in front of me with the plate in one hand and a fork in the other. "Open."
I parted my lips, and he guided a forkful of pasta into my mouth.
The flavors exploded on my tongue. Rich, creamy, perfectly seasoned. I hadn't realized how hungry I actually was until that first bite.
"Good?" he asked.
I nodded, chewing.
"Swallow first, then answer."
I swallowed. "Yes, sir. It's delicious."
"Good." He loaded another forkful. "I had my chef prepare it this morning. I wanted to make sure you were properly taken care of. Fed before fucked. Nourished before drained. All around happy." He winked at me, and his sinister grin gave way to his playful side.
Something about that statement, the care implied, wrapped in wickedness, made my chest tighten.
He fed me slowly. Each bite was carefully portioned, given only when he decided I was ready for it.
Between bites, he'd trace the fork along my lower lip, or brush a thumb across my jaw, or simply watch me with those intense gray eyes that seemed to observe everything.
"You're beautiful when you chew," he said conversationally, offering me more pasta. "Did you know that? The way your throat works when you swallow. The little sound you make when something tastes especially good."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "You're paying too much attention."
"I pay attention to everything about you.
" He set the fork down and picked up a piece of bread, tearing it into smaller pieces.
"The way your breath catches when I get close.
How your nipples are hard even though you're not cold.
The way you're pressing your thighs together right now, trying to get friction. "
Shit, I was.
"Stop," he commanded softly.
I forced my thighs to relax, to spread as wide as the ankle restraints would allow.
"Better." He held the bread to my lips. "Open."
I bit into it, and he pulled it away before I could take the whole piece, making me chase it with my mouth. The game continued—him offering, me reaching, him withdrawing until I made a small frustrated sound.
"Patience," he murmured. "Good girls get fed. Greedy girls go hungry."
"I'm being patient," I protested.
"Are you?" He held the bread just out of reach. "Then ask nicely."
Having to ask for something that I should have been given felt silly. Petty. Slightly degrading. "Please, sir. May I have the bread?"
"You may." He let me take a bite, and the simple act of being allowed felt like a reward. "See how easy that is? You ask. I decide. You accept my decision."
It felt demeaning. Yet, safe. Not cruel. A balance of offer and praise. It felt freeing. He fed me roasted asparagus that he made me eat from his fingers, cherry tomatoes that burst in my mouth, zucchini that he'd drag across my lower lip first before letting me have it.
"You're making a mess," he observed, and I realized he was right.
There was sauce on my chin, a smear of something at the corner of my mouth. A mess that he’d clearly made that was now my fault. I bit my lip, curious of the consequence. Otherwise, why bring it up?
"Sorry, sir."
"Don't be sorry." He set the plate aside and stepped closer, crowding into my space until his thighs bracketed mine. "I'll take care of it."
Then his mouth was on mine. Not a kiss exactly, but something more possessive.
His tongue swept along my lower lip, licking away the sauce.
Then to the corner of my mouth. Then my chin, cleaning every trace with slow, deliberate attention.
I whimpered against him, straining against the ropes, wanting to touch him so badly it hurt.
"Stay still," he commanded against my lips. "Let me work."
His mouth moved lower, to my throat where apparently I'd gotten sauce as well. How had I managed that? His tongue traced patterns that made me gasp. Then lower still, to the swell of my breasts above my bra.
"Fucking gorgeous," he muttered, his breath hot against my skin. "And all mine for the next—" he checked his watch without moving away from me, "—twenty-something hours."
An eternity. A blink. Not enough if this was how he was going to pamper me. His teeth scraped against the sensitive skin at the top of my breast, and I arched into him involuntarily.
"Eager," he pulled back to look at me.
My lips were swollen, my breathing ragged, and I could feel how wet I was, probably soaking through the lace of my panties.
"Yes, sir."
"Mhm..." He picked up the plate again. "We're not done eating yet."
"Dez—" It came out as a whine.
"That's not what you call me." His voice went hard, and the shift made my stomach flip. "Try again."
"Sir. Please, sir."
"Please what?"
"Please..." I didn't even know what I was begging for. To be touched. To be fucked. To be released from these restraints so I could pull him to me.
"Use your words, Angelina." He held a piece of asparagus to my lips. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you." He dragged the asparagus across my lower lip. "Be specific."
"I want you to touch me between my legs."
"Why?"
"Because I'm—" God, this was mortifying. "Because I'm wet, sir."
"I know you are. I can smell it." He finally let me take the asparagus. "But you don't get to play until I say so. And right now, I say you need to finish your lunch like a good girl. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's better."
He fed me the rest of the meal with the same torturous attention—slow bites, long pauses between them, his mouth cleaning up any mess I made. By the time the plate was empty, I was trembling with need, my skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and begging for more contact. Also, full.
"Thirsty?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
He poured water into a glass and held it to my lips. I drank, and he let me, tipping the glass so I could take my fill. Water spilled down my chin, running down my throat to pool in the valley between my breasts.
"Messy girl," he murmured, setting the glass aside. "Guess I'll have to clean that up too."
His mouth was on my throat again, following the trail of water down, down, until he reached the wet lace of my bra. His tongue traced the edge of the cup, then dipped beneath it to find my nipple. I cried out, the sensation shocking after so much careful restraint.
"Sensitive," he observed, doing it again to the other breast. "I like that."
His teeth closed around my nipple through the lace, not quite biting but close enough that I felt it everywhere.
"Sir, please?—"
"Please what?" He pulled back, leaving me aching.
"Please don't stop."
"Oh, I'm going to stop." He straightened, looking down at me with a wicked smile. "Because we're going to let your lunch digest while I eat mine. Then move to the bedroom. And if you mind your manners, follow every instruction perfectly, I may even fuck you."
"Maybe?"
"Yeah..." He began untying my ankles, his movements efficient. "I haven't decided yet if you've earned it."
The ankle ropes fell away, and he moved to my wrists, freeing them with the same care he'd used to bind them. When I was completely unbound, he stepped back and held out his hand.
"Stand up."
I tried. My legs were shaky from the position and the arousal coursing through me, and I stumbled. He caught me easily, pulling me against his chest.
"Steady," he murmured against my hair. "I've got you."
And somehow, impossibly, I believed him. He turned around the chair, and sat me down in it. Dez then went to his seat and made his plate. There weren’t words exchanged, instead there were heated glances. Ones that I hoped urged him to finish sooner than later. He dropped his fork mid bite.
"Bedroom," he said, his voice going hard again. "On the bed. On your back. Arms above your head."
I moved on trembling legs, hyperaware of him following behind me, his gaze burning into my skin.
The bed was enormous up close. The burgundy silk sheets looked soft and expensive and like they'd seen things that would make me blush.
I climbed onto the bed and positioned myself as instructed, waiting.
Dez stood at the foot of the bed, just watching me. The afternoon light streaming through the windows made him look even more dangerous.
"Do you know how long I've been hard for you?" he asked conversationally, beginning to unbutton his shirt. "Since the moment I saw you at the ball and you told me not to hold back."
The shirt fell away, revealing a chest that made my mouth go dry. Defined muscle, ink covering his chest and shoulders and a trail of dark hair disappearing into his slacks.
"I thought about every way I wanted to take you." His hands went to his belt. "Every sound I wanted to pull from your throat. Every way I wanted to make you beg."
The belt came free. His slacks followed, pooling on the floor. He stood there in just black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide how hard he was, and I felt my mouth actually water.
So this is what twenty-eight looks like?
And looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. Did he not see the age difference?
“What was that thought?” He tilted my head so he could look into my eyes.
“Nothing.” I pushed the thoughts away and tried to come back into the moment.
Dez gave me a punished slap to my thigh. “Try again.”
I glared at him. “We didn’t negotiate feelings.”
“What about being mine for twenty four hours, do you not understand? I’m going to invade every part of you, your emotions don’t get a pass. Especially since it could be a determining factor in my scene.” He punished that same spot on my thigh again. “Talk.”
“The age difference doesn’t bother you?” I blurted.
“That’s what you’re thinking about?”
“It is.” I confirmed.
"Spread your legs," he commanded.
“That doesn’t answer the question.” I obeyed, letting my thighs fall open.
"Wider."
I spread them as far as I could, feeling obscenely exposed with nothing but the scrap of lace covering me.
"Perfect." He climbed onto the bed, moving with predatory grace until he was kneeling between my spread thighs. "Now let's see if you can be as good at following instructions in here as you were at the table."
“Dez…”
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties.
"Because if you are—" he pulled them down slowly, torturously, "—I might just let you come before dinner."
My panties joined the growing pile of my clothes on the floor. And I was completely, utterly at his mercy. Exactly where I wanted to be.
“Dez?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” He kissed the inside of my thighs, making me gasp.
“My question?”
“I’m answering it.” He kissed up to and across my stomach. “Right now.”