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This was weird. It made me uncomfortable and hot and tingly.
My lips parted, and the salty hummus touched my tongue. The carrot crunched beneath my teeth, sweet mingling with salt.
Marco’s smile hit me square in the chest. I’d never seen him like this: proud and pleased in a way I couldn’t fully comprehend.
Even though I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it, I basked in his pleasure. If allowing him to feed me felt this good, why fight it?
Marco watched me intently as I ate every bite he brought to my lips, his eyes darkening and his lids growing heavy as I complied. He even held my glass of water to my lips, insisting that I drink intermittently. He needed me to do as he told me. I could see it in the way his lips curved with satisfaction when I obeyed.
His pleasure was catching. By the time I finished my lunch, my body felt strangely light, and I was grinning like a fool. I didn’t have a care or worry in my head, because Marco was taking care of me.
He held my hand while he ate his own share of our meal, as though he couldn’t bear to break contact with me.
I didn’t want him to, either.
When he polished off the last of the food, he cleaned up the plate and came back to me. He held out his hand, waiting for me to wrap my fingers around his. I did so without hesitation, and he led me to the media room.
Well, he called it the media room. It was more like an in-home theater. The massive screen took up one wall, and the plush sectional couch could have easily seated ten people.
He sat in one corner of the couch, propping back against it while he stretched his legs out in front of him. I moved to sit beside him, but he shifted my body with his sure, strong hands. When he was finished moving me into position, I laid on my side, stretched out beside him with my head resting on his thighs.
He stroked my hair with one hand and picked up the remote with the other.
Tears filled my eyes when the movie started. Nostalgia and affection for Marco swelled.
The Last Unicorn.
“You remembered,” I murmured.
“Of course I did. Now hush, and watch the movie.”
He continued stroking my hair, his fingers playing through the silken strands in a hypnotic rhythm. As I sank into relaxation, he rubbed my scalp and my nape in a light massage. I melted against him, humming in contentment as the familiar story played out on the screen.
By the time the credits rolled, I felt even lighter than I had after lunch. I’d thought my dynamic with Marco was complicated, but being with him like this was so simple. Easy. I didn’t have to stress or make any hard decisions. I didn’t have to worry about my responsibilities or what anyone expected of me.
All that mattered was what Marco expected of me, and that was to be good for him and let him take care of me.
I rolled onto my back and looked up at him. He practically radiated contentment, and he continued stroking me.
“Why am I like this?” I asked him. “I mean, I like what we’re doing. But it’s not normal, is it?” I wasn’t concerned about it anymore. I was curious.
“Does it matter if it’s normal? Does it matter what other people think, if this makes both of us happy?”
“I guess not. I still don’t understand, though.”
His hand stilled in my hair for a moment. “Tell me about your relationship with your parents.”
I flinched; the question punctured my happy little bubble.
He resumed petting me. “We don’t have to talk about this now, but if you want to understand, it would help if I knew more about your upbringing.”
“There’s not much to talk about,” I hedged.
A small frown tugged at his lips. “Don’t hide from me,” he warned. “I know your father never responded to your email about taking time off from college. I know you didn’t message your mother at all. Are you estranged from your parents?”
I tried to turn my face away, but his fingers tightened in my hair, trapping me beneath his incisive gaze.
“My dad loves me.” Even I could hear how defensive I sounded. “He just has high expectations. He wants me to succeed.”
“He puts a lot of pressure on you,” Marco read the truth in my words. “You’re obviously intelligent and hardworking. You wouldn’t have been accepted at Harvard, otherwise. Does your father tell you he’s proud of you?”
“No,” I whispered. “Not really.” It was expected that I would work hard and do well, so there was no need for positive reinforcement when I succeeded. There was only a need for censure when I failed.
“And what about your mother?”
