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"It's unorthodox." She tried to pull a variety of thoughts together to handle the unprecedented turn of events, but when he parted his lips as if to say more, the brittle look in his eye made her lead with instinct. She stopped him, curling her fingers around his wrist.
"Eat your food. You're about to say stupid things. We'll talk about it when it's time, but right now we're going to talk about other things."
"Issuing orders, Mistress?" His look became more challenging.
"When you need it, yeah. And you need it right now, big time."
He'd triggered the Mistress side that came forth when called, and she let him see it when he finally locked gazes with her. She tapped his knuckles. "You've been fighting again."
"Winning again," he said after a weighted pause. "Picked up about five hundred on a street fight before the cops were called and we had to take off. Not a bad take for fifteen minutes."
He returned to eating, merely adjusting his elbows so he didn't impede her when she lifted his shirt. The bruising along his ribs and abdomen had her wincing. And made her mad. But she sat on it. He noticed the tight set to her lips, though.
"Don't worry about it," he said, no belligerence in his tone now. He seemed to have an earnest desire to reassure her and get her to move on from the subject. "Pain doesn't really hurt anymore, Mistress."
"Well, that's good." Picking up a napkin, she blotted a small smear of mustard away from the corner of his mouth. "It's not like pain serves a vital purpose, such as telling you when a bone is broken or an organ has ruptured."
His unrepentant grin made her want to slap him, as much as she wanted to do other things to him. "I didn't fight angry, so I didn't break my promise."
"I'm so relieved." She blew out a sigh and put a hand to the side of his head, shoving it. He ducked away from the resigned admonishment and used the movement to reach for another sandwich.
She'd worried that he wasn't eating enough because of limited finances, but since then she'd developed a more logical theory, given his muscle mass and fighting energy. Seeing him attack the homemade food she'd brought proved it. No one cooked for him, including himself. He must eat out all the time, so that the breakfast she'd cooked him, the sandwiches and cookies she'd brought him now, were as welcome to him as a meal in a five-star restaurant might be to her.
She was a Domme, but she was also her mother's daughter and a good Southern girl. She liked cooking for a man, liked seeing him enjoy the food. It made her think about cooking for him as a regular thing.
Every once in a while, she thought about what it would be like to have a husband who was also her dedicated submissive. Of all the inappropriate times to be remembering that Cinderella kind of wish, this one rated at the top. But so far, very little of her and Marius's trek together had fit between the lines.
She pushed away the unsettling thoughts and the emotions that came upon her, watching him eat her food at such a strange and terrible moment in his life.
"I've never had a man more eager to reach between my knees for food than pussy," she observed.
"Well, there are cameras and perimeter checks. This seemed like my second-best option." His gray eyes slid over to hers and held. "Believe me, Mistress. I never stop thinking about pussy. Particularly yours."
He glanced at the Hummer next to them. "If I had a ride like that, there'd be enough leg room you could roll the seat way back. I'd kneel between your legs, eat you until you came."
"If I said you could."
He paused. Swallowed the bite of sandwich. "If you said I could. But I hope you would. I wish I could do it right now. I'd like to at least touch you, feel if what I'm saying is getting you hot."
She cocked her head. "Then ask me, Marius."
His expression flickered, lips pressing together as if he was struggling with something. "Could you...would you call me..."
He couldn't finish it, but she could. "Ask me, Duncan," she said softly.
"May I touch your pussy, Mistress?" His voice went rough and growly, but his gaze dropped to stare at the console between them. He had lowered his eyes, a submissive instinct, but it kept what he wanted in the range of his hungry glance. "I want to stroke it. Put my fingers inside of you so I can taste how wet you are. Can I?"
Her throat was dry. "Yes, you may."
He stuffed in the last bite of sandwich, swallowed. His urgency proved his desire, but he remembered courtesy to his Mistress, stopping in the act of reaching for her to wipe his fingers thoroughly on the napkin. Only then did he slide his hand up her thigh, palm pressed against the thin legging fabric that covered her flesh. He went up under the tunic, found the waistband of the leggings and dipped beneath, adjusting toward her so the front of his shoulder pressed against the side of hers, their bodies forming a corner. His face was so close to hers, making her lips part as his gaze latched onto her mouth.
He found out fast she was wet. He muttered a reverent oath as his fingertips stroked through the moisture and eased in. Her hips lifted to accommodate the penetration, her other hand falling on his biceps. His gaze became fierce, and gloriously possessive. "For me?" he said, in a near whisper.
"For you," she confirmed, threading her fingers through his hair, caressing his bruised cheekbone with her thumb. He pressed his face into her palm and bit, his eyes sliding to her face to watch her reaction, a spear of arousal that had her breath elevating. He left a mark he traced with his tongue as his fingers pressed in deeper, knuckles feathering along the base of her clit.
"I need you to come. I need to see that, feel that. I need to do something for you, and I don't want you to let me come. I want you to be selfish, demanding, and take everything you want from me until I'm dying and my cock's so hard I can't walk, and I need you to still tell me no."
