Just The Two Of Us #2
She swallows hard. “You’re theatrical.”
“Four.”
Her hand clenches around the fork. She tries to ignore me, focusing on the food like if she eats fast enough, she’ll get out from under me. But she doesn’t eat fast. She eats as if she’s dragging her feet into quicksand, because she knows I want her trapped right here.
I ghost my fingers along the inside of her thigh under the table. She flinches, almost drops her fork.
“Careful,” I whisper. “If it hits the floor, you’ll eat it out of my hand. On your knees. In front of the window.”
Her fork stills. Her throat works, a thin line of heat crawling up her neck.
Then—slowly, with a flicker of something reckless in her eyes—she takes another bite. Chews, swallows, defiance rolling off her in waves.
“Five.”
I laugh under my breath, dark and low, sliding my hand higher, close enough to make her thighs press together under the table. “You’re shaking already, baby girl. What happens when you reach ten?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to—the way she stabs her fork down again is all the reply I need.
“Six.”
I hum approval, brushing my knuckles over her inner thigh like I’m playing with fire. “Such a desperate little thing. Eating so good for me. Does it make you wet knowing she has no idea?”
Her fork nearly slips, the piece of toast wobbling before she forces it into her mouth. Her glare is molten, cheeks flushed.
I grin, teeth bared. “Seven.”
She chews as if she’s swallowing broken glass. And all I can think about is how much prettier she’s going to look when I finally push her too far.
The front door shut ten minutes ago, Kate’s laughter still echoing faintly in the house before the car pulled away. I haven’t told Brooklyn she’s safe now. I haven’t told her she can breathe easier.
Because she isn’t safe. Not with me.
She sits across from me, her plate still half full. I lean back in my chair like I’ve got all the time in the world, watching her cut another piece with trembling fingers.
“Eight,” I drawl, slow, deliberate.
Her lashes flick up, eyes burning, lips pressed tight. She chews as if she wants to bite through me instead of the food.
“Good girl,” I whisper.
Her fork slams down against the plate, metal clanging. “Stop calling me that.”
I laugh, low and dangerous. “But you are. Sitting here, doing exactly what I tell you. My good girl, eating so sweet for me while your best friend is miles away, never knowing what I’ve done to you.”
Her breath shudders. She grabs her fork again just to spite me, stabbing into the toast, lifting it to her lips. She takes the bite without breaking eye contact.
“Nine.”
Her throat works as she swallows, the heat in her glare melting into something softer, needier. She hates it—God, she hates it. But she wants it too. I can see it in the way her knees shift under the table, thighs pressing tight like she can smother the ache building there.
I slide my hand across the table, hook a finger under her chin, tilt her face to me. “One more,” I murmur, voice rough silk. “Ten. And then I decide what happens to you.”
Her lips part, ragged breath escaping.
She looks down at the plate, back up at me, a war raging in her eyes. Her hand shakes as she cuts another piece, smaller this time, deliberate. She raises it, hesitates, then pushes it between her lips.
Slow.
She chews, every movement exaggerated like she knows I’m watching the way her jaw works, the way her tongue moves.
I whisper the number like a brand.
“Ten.”
Her fork clatters against the plate.
My hand is on her thigh before she can blink, sliding higher, forcing her legs apart under the table. She gasps, jerks back, but I grip her chin tighter, forcing her to look at me.
“You did so well, baby girl,” I murmur, leaning in close enough to taste her breath. “Now—do you want your reward…or your punishment?”
The fork barely has time to settle against porcelain before I shove the plate aside. It scrapes across the table, the clatter sharp enough to make her jump.
Her eyes go wide. “What—”
I cut her off by dragging the plate the rest of the way, shoving it to the floor with a crash that echoes through the room. Food splatters, crumbs scattering across the polished wood.
“You’re done,” I growl, voice gravel-dark.
She jerks back in her chair, breathing ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. “You—you said ten—”
“And you gave me ten.” I lean across the table, my hand finding the back of her chair, caging her in. “But don’t ever think you get to stop because the game’s over. I decide when you stop, baby girl.”
Her lips part, no sound coming out at first. “You’re just playing a game.”
My mouth curves. “Maybe.” I drag the chair back with her still in it, the legs screeching over the floor, her body jolting at the sound. She gasps as I push her away from the table, leaving her open, bare for me. “Or maybe I’m the only one here who’s honest about what I want.”
I grip her knees, shove them apart. She clutches the edge of the chair like it’ll anchor her.
“You wanted this too,” I snarl, lowering myself between her thighs, voice edged with accusation. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Brooklyn. Don’t sit here shaking, wet, starving for me and tell me you don’t want it.”
Her nails scrape the chair arms. “I shouldn’t—”
“You shouldn’t,” I agree, my mouth ghosting against the inside of her thigh, my words vibrating against her skin. “But you will.”
She whimpers, a sound she tries to swallow but can’t. I grip her chin again, tilting her head back so she has no choice but to look at me.
“You’re mine now. Plate’s gone. Rules are gone. It’s just you and me, baby girl, and you’ll take every single thing I give you.”
I press my thumb to her lips, slide it inside, force her tongue down under the weight of me. Her eyes flutter, her breath catches, and I know—fuck, I know—I’ve got her.
“Swallow,” I whisper. “Show me.”
Her throat bobs around my thumb, the sound obscene in the quiet of the dining room. The shattered plate lies forgotten on the floor, but the echo of it still hangs between us like a warning.
She swallows. Good girl.
Her lips are soft around me, trembling just enough that I can feel it in my bones. She doesn’t break eye contact. Not because she’s brave, but because I won’t let her. My hand is firm under her chin, tilting, trapping, owning.
I pull my thumb free, slow, wet, watching the shine of spit catch the light as I drag it down her chin to her throat. She gasps, but I keep going, smearing the trail lower, over her collarbone, until it glistens there like a brand.
“Look at the mess you’re in,” I murmur, and she shivers like I’ve cut her. “All because you wanted to keep eating your little breakfast in peace.”
Her breath stutters. “You’re—you’re not fair.”
“No,” I admit, bending close enough that my mouth almost brushes her ear. “But I am consistent. You push, I push harder. You run, I hunt. You give me attitude, baby girl…” I let my hand slide lower, fingers resting at the hem of her shirt. “…I take it out of you.”
Her thighs twitch, like she’s not sure whether to close them or spread wider. The chair creaks under her, betraying how tense she is.
I don’t touch. Not yet.
Instead, I lean back, settling into the chair opposite hers again, like I’m just another man finishing his coffee. My eyes drag down her body, slow, deliberate. “Spread your legs wider.”
Her jaw drops. “Dean—”
I raise an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a request.”
The silence stretches taut as a wire. She grips the arms of the chair like they’ll save her, then, finally—slow as honey—her knees fall open.
My smile is sharp, cruel. “Better.”
I drum my fingers against the table edge, deliberately unhurried, like I’ve got all the time in the world to sit here and watch her squirm. Her cheeks flush deeper, her chest rising faster, and it hits me—how much she hates this, how much she loves it.
“Do you know what I see right now?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head.
“A girl who’s been mine from the second she walked into my house.”
Her breath catches. She opens her mouth to argue—then closes it, because she knows I’ll tear down whatever excuse she makes.
I let the words hang there, heavy, before tilting my head. “Now…” My eyes drop back between her thighs. “Show me how wet you are.”
She freezes. That’s the first instinct — not to obey, not to protest, just to sit there like a rabbit who thinks stillness might make the predator lose interest.
It doesn’t.
I lean back in my chair, spreading out, one arm draped over the backrest, the other swirling my coffee like I’ve got nowhere else to be. My gaze stays locked between her thighs. Waiting.
“Dean…” her voice is quiet, strained, almost pleading.
I hum low, bored. “You can say my name all you want, sweetheart, but it won’t change what I asked you.”
She licks her lips. Her hand flutters in her lap, like she’s half a second from bolting. I don’t move. That’s the trap — my stillness. It leaves her to wrestle with her own pulse hammering in her ears, her own body betraying her under the weight of my stare.
“Why do you—why do you always—”
“Push you?” I cut in, my tone soft but sharp enough to slit her throat if I wanted.
I tilt my head, watching her squirm. “Because you beg for it without even opening your mouth. You think I don’t see it?
The way your pupils dilate when I so much as touch your wrist?
The way your thighs press together when you tell me you hate me? ”
Her face flames red. “That’s not—”
“Not what?” I snap, leaning forward now, elbows on the table, my voice dropping low. “Not true? Or not something you want to admit out loud?”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She looks away, toward the plate fragments glinting on the floor. Like she’d rather bleed on the shards than confess the truth.
I reach across the table and grip her chin again, turning her back to me. My thumb digs into the soft skin of her cheek. “Don’t look away. Not from me.”