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“I said, open up.”
“You’re going to feed me?”
“I feed my pet raven. Why shouldn’t I feed my raven-haired pet?”
There were no words to describe the incredible awkwardness of being fed. He was twenty-one, a grown man who could feed himself. Just opening his mouth enough to let her press the sweet gritty edge of the strawberry to his lips took a Herculean and humiliating act of self-abasement. He did it though, opened his mouth and took a bite from the tender red flesh.
The juices burst against his tongue and he swallowed. It went down like a chunk of pavement.
“There,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She wasn’t being sarcastic or mocking now. She spoke to him with the same tenderness in her voice she’d spoken to her raven. “More?”
The craving for that tenderness was stronger than the urge to stand and bolt for the door.
He let her feed him a bite of pineapple. The juices ran down his chin. Instead of using the linen napkin, she caught them with her fingers and licked them off her hand.
As she brought a plump black grape to his mouth, he realized he wanted it. He wanted the grape, and he wanted her to feed it to him. If only for the pleasure that seemed to fill her grey eyes as he ate from her hands.
Another bite of pineapple. When the juices dripped this time, she caught them with her tongue. Arthur’s eyes closed and his breath caught as her gentle tongue lapped them off his chin and the corner of his mouth. Before he’d planned to do it, he turned his head one inch to let his lips come to hers. She smiled into the kiss but didn’t return it, merely allowed it.
Another fat black grape. She popped it into his mouth and flicked his lips with her fingertips. Lightly, but it shocked him into laughing the grape out into his hand.
“That wasn’t sexy,” he said, palming the grape and setting it back into the bowl.
“I beg to differ.” She took a sip of whisky on the rocks. “I love to watch you react to me. No matter how hard you try to hide, I see you.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m right here.”
“Yes, I see you. I see a spoiled, entitled brat, but so, so lovely…”
He warmed at her words. He wasn’t used to being talked to like this, being treated like this, being touched like this. When she picked up the grape again he found he was starving for it. She brought it to his lips and he almost bit into it, but she said, “No, not until I say so.”
Its smooth dark skin was cool on his mouth. He waited, waited, then she put it in her palm and said, “Now you may have it.”
He dipped his head and took it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. This time it went down like honey. Bitter honey. How long had he been here with her? An hour, if that? And here he was…already on his knees, already eating out of her hand.
She ran her fingers through his hair again. He shivered as she found the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck and caressed him there. His body screamed at him to wrap his arms around her and pull her close. But he fought the urge and let his hands lay flat on the golden velvet of the chaise. He was hard, painfully hard in his jeans. He told himself it was because her legs were wrapped around him and her knickers were black and lacy and because she had eyes the color of rain clouds. That’s all. He didn’t like being treated like this—like a pet—but he’d suffer through it if he had to. For Charlie.
And for Charlie, he let his head fall back when she tugged roughly on his hair. For Charlie, he didn’t fight when she pressed her mouth to the side of his neck and bit it lightly, didn’t ask her to stop when she licked the hollow of his throat, didn’t complain when she raised her head and brought her mouth to his mouth. All for Charlie.
The kiss was hot but quick, only the lightest brushing of her lips over his but it caused his cock to stiffen even more. It throbbed, pressing against his zipper. It wanted out, wanted touching. He couldn’t help but push his hips forward, to rub against the inside of her thigh, seeking some kind of relief.
She tightened her legs around his hips, bringing him closer to her, tightening her grip on his neck, fingernails pricking his skin deliciously. Why couldn’t he hate this as much as he wanted to?
“This is going to be interesting tonight,” she said. “I haven’t been with anyone since my husband died. You haven’t been with anyone since before Sandhurst. I’m a grieving widow—supposedly. What’s your excuse?”
“No excuse. It’s impossible to date when you’re at Sandhurst. And why bother getting into a serious relationship when I don’t plan to get married for years anyway? It would only cause unnecessary pain all around.”
“And you don’t like unnecessary pain.”
“Who does?”
“Me.” She reached behind him and slapped his arse, hard.
He rolled his eyes. “Were you trying to swat a fly?” he asked. He’d barely felt a thing, other than surprise at the fact a woman so cold was capable of being playful.
She shook her hand like it had stung. “I think I swatted your wallet.” She patted him down. “No wallet. You just have a very tight arse.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to tell me that.”
