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His lips thin. The tips of his ears grow white. The air between us zings with tension. He curls his fingers into fists at his side. I’m sure he’s going to yell at me or, maybe, shake me by my shoulders. This is it; I’ve pushed him too far. I brace myself for the inevitable explosion.
He chuckles. The sound is unused, gravelly, and so rough. So sexy. My nerve-endings spark. That itch between my thighs deepens. I swallow and watch as he wipes the mirth off his face. "Next time, I won’t be so forgiving."
"Because there won’t be a next time." Yes, there will be.
He knows it. I know it. But I have to defy him. I have to push him to the edge. I have to cleave through that icy control of his so I can face the full brunt of his dominance. Dominance. I blink. He’s a dominant? And there’s a name for what he turns me into with that hard, deep, bossy voice of his. Submissive.
I quiver. My core clenches. I’ve read about this lifestyle. And also gotten off to it. Most women use vibrators to bring themselves to orgasm. For me, it's been stories where he dominates her and commands her to get on her knees and suck him off before he bends her over and uses her as his own personal fuck toy.
I swallow. I’ve never dared say the four-letter word aloud, but I’ve read it plenty in novels. And yes, I've seen videos on Pornhub. But I never thought I wanted it for myself. Correction, I never met anyone who brought out that craving within me to be dominated. Is that why I’m so drawn to him?
Because this man... There’s a confidence at his core. An assurance which confirms to me that he’ll know what I want and give it to me. There’s a coldness to his demeanor which signals he’ll use my body to satisfy his urges... And that... Oh, my god. That turns me on so much.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
"What?"
"Food. When was the last time you ate?"
"Food?" I shift my weight from foot to foot. Did I eat this morning? Nope. Last night? That would be another no. "Uh, I had breakfast," I offer.
"This morning or yesterday morning?"
I flush, then stiffen my spine. "None of your concern." I spoil the haughty tone I was striving for when I hiccup. Ugh! I should have accepted that glass of water, instead of throwing it at him, and no doubt, he’s going to point that out to me with a knowing smirk.
Only, he doesn’t. Without comment, he fills another glass with water and, heading back, places it in front of me.
"Thank you." I hand the empty glass in my hand to him and bring the one with water to my lips.
He heads to the refrigerator and pulls out a casserole in a microwave-proof dish.
I can’t keep my gaze off of his solid figure. Can’t stop tracking each movement of his, which is so precise, it gives away his military background.
He heats it up in the microwave, puts the food on plates, then walks back to the island and places it there, before grabbing some cutlery.
"I should clean the water on the floor," I murmur as I prepare to take my seat.
"I’ll do it." He nods to the plate. "Eat."
He mops up the water on the floor, washes his hands, then walks over to take the seat opposite me.
I watch him take a bite, watch his jaw move as he chews, the tendons of his throat flexing. That itch in my core spreads, until I have to squirm around in my seat to try and relieve it.
Once more, he senses that little movement and tilts his head. "Everything okay?"
"Why wouldn’t it be? I got ditched at the altar, then the father of my now-ex proposed to me, and I’m sitting opposite him in his house having dinner like nothing is wrong with my life."
"Everything is about to turn out fine in your life," he says in a confident tone.
I narrow my gaze. "If you’d had to fight to put a roof over your head, and food on the table, and take care of your family like I have, you wouldn’t take anything for granted. It’s your privileged background that gives you the luxury of being so assured about your future.” Or maybe, it’s also his experience?
He puts down his fork, and his features, once again, settle into neutral lines. "You know about my background?"
I play with the food on my plate. "Felix told me his grandfather started the Davenport Group and that his family was well off. He also mentioned he was estranged from his father."
It’s one of the few bits of information Felix revealed about his relationship with his father. And having met Quentin, I understand how difficult it must have been for Felix to measure up to him. Quentin’s confidence in himself is enough to shake any other man’s self-assurance, and Felix didn’t have much to begin with.
Breaking away from the family fortune was Felix’s way of finding himself. But Quentin is a possessive man. The brief encounter in the bar, and the way he made sure everyone there knew I was his, proves it.
