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“I…I…did…didn’t want to make any extra work for you. The potato and salad are twice as much as I’d usually eat anyway,” she stutters quietly, her voice shaking as she speaks.
Pressing my lips into a firm line, I tip my head back and drag in a slow breath, struggling to rein in the unnecessary anger that has started to bubble inside of me. When I glance down at her again, she’s staring up at me with those expressive eyes, her chest heaving up and down as she tries and fails to hide her anxious fear.
She’s as scared as I am furious. Both of us are overreacting, but why? Is she trying to manipulate me? Why would she bother? She didn’t plan to be here, I practically kidnapped her. Her body language is small and timid, like that of a scared little mouse, but there’s nothing mousy about her candy-colored hair. At first glance, she’s a complete contradiction—shy and meek—but dressed to be noticed with her pink hair and the hint of a tattoo that’s just visible in that tantalizing line of exposed skin.
Is she playing me?
A part of me wants to rip the plate away from her and fling it at the wall, then demand to know what games she’s playing, but I’m not as psychotic as my irrational fury is trying to make me believe. So instead, I calmly slide her plate away from her and carry it into the kitchen. Pulling a clean plate from the cabinet, I slide her potato and what’s left of her salad onto the fresh plate, ensuring none of it has touched the steak or the juices from the tender meat.
“Here,” I growl, placing the food back in front of her.
“You didn’t need—” she starts, then stops herself. “Thank you,” she amends, and slowly starts to eat again.
Any normal person entertaining someone they don’t know or like would use this moment as a chance to leave, but instead of excusing myself to clean the dishes or to go to bed, I sit back down in my seat at the table and watch her eat, like a fucking weirdo. When we were kids, we were forced to eat together as a family every dinnertime, but I don’t remember her being a vegetarian back then. Although, truthfully, I doubt I’d have noticed. I was buried so deep in my loathing of everything associated with my dad that my only real memories of the time I spent with him and his new family are of bitter arguments and a constant desire to leave.
What made it harder for me was that, even though I hated spending time with my dad, I hated being with my mom almost as much. After Dad left, she kind of fell apart. She never really got over the fact that he cheated on her or that he almost immediately remarried and started having more kids. For three years, while my dad lived it up with his new family, Mom struggled with alcohol addiction, which led to her struggling with her mental health. If it hadn’t been for my grandpa, I’d probably be a damn sight more messed up than I am.
When Mom lost her shit, my grandpa stepped up and helped. I might not be close to either of my parents, but my grandpa and I are tight. He lives in an assisted living facility in Florida, and I try to go visit him every time I have a chance.
When all her salad is gone, Henrietta places her silverware carefully on her plate and leans back in her seat.
“You need to eat more than that,” I say, not intending for my words to come out like an order.
“I’m full, but thank you. Do you have a dishwasher? Or should I do the dishes in the sink?”
“I’ll clean up once you eat more. That tiny salad isn’t enough, you’ll make yourself sick. Eat more, you’re too fucking tiny.”
Her cheeks heat, and she tugs at the cuffs of her hoodie, pulling it over the ends of her fingers. “I don’t…I don’t have a big appetite when I’m stressed,” she admits quietly.
An insane urge to pull her into my lap and feed her unexpectedly sparks to life inside of me. I have never, not once, wanted to feed a woman anything other than my cock, and yet I’m not envisioning Henrietta on her knees, begging for a taste of my dick. I’m imagining myself taking care of her, seizing control, and taking over her life.
What the actual fuck?
Nope. Nope, no. No fucking way. I do not want to do anything with or to Henri-fucking-etta. She’s a bitch. She’s playing me. She’s the enemy…right? So why the fuck is my dick rock-hard, pointing due north and right at her?
I don’t have a particular type that I go for. I like my women wet and willing, but other than that, I enjoy variety. But never in my thirty years of life have I ever met a woman I wanted to both care for and fuck at the same time.
Staring at the woman opposite me, I try to decide what the hell my dick is thinking by being so hard for her, but honestly, I can’t figure it out. Unless she’s the best actress in the world, Henrietta Jordan is small, weak, timid, and in a dog-eat-dog world, she’d most definitely be prey.
I might not have a type, but I’ve never been attracted to damsels in distress, and Henrietta screams save me. I find confidence sexy. There’s nothing hotter than a woman who’s bold enough to walk up to me in a bar and tell me she’s taking me home to ride my cock.
So why the fuck are my balls aching? Why is my dick rock-hard? The only other person in the room other than her is me. So, either I’ve suddenly developed a kink that means I’m turning myself on, or my arousal is all for her.
Inhaling silently, I tell my dick to knock it the fuck off. I do not want this woman. I refuse to want this woman. So why haven’t I left? Why the fuck am I still sitting here? Why the hell do I care? Pushing her plate back toward her with the tip of my finger, I arch one eyebrow. “Eat,” I order.
Her eyes widen and flash with fear. Am I scaring her? Do I want to? There was a time, many years ago, when making her skitter away like a scared little mouse was the only thing that brought me pleasure. Hating Henrietta and having her hate me back was the one thing I had control over in that house, and I needed to exert control over something when everything else in my life was so manic.
I’d never admit it out loud or even confess it to my therapist, who knows all of my deep, dark secrets…but seeing that flash of panic in her doll-like eyes right now only fans the flames that are burning steadily inside of me, and my dick pulses excitedly in my pants.
A flash of a vision pulses behind my eyes. She looks at me like she is right now, while I order her to bend over the table and present her ass to me to be fucked. The image is so evocative, so fucking real, that I barely managed to swallow down the moan of want that wants to burble up from my throat.
According to my therapist, the lack of control I felt as a teenager has affected my sexual preferences as an adult. Personally, I don’t agree. I don’t think I’m bossy in bed because my dad is an asshole, I just think I enjoy taking the lead sexually. I like my intimate partners confident, but I find women who want to be in charge sexually, a turn-off. I’m a fucking contradiction, I know.
There are plenty of women out there who know what they want but also enjoy being overwhelmed in the bedroom. I’ve just never felt the desire to take my need for control beyond my sexual encounters.
Until now.
I don’t understand why, but I have an overwhelming desire to steal every ounce of power Henrietta has and claim it as my own. I want to demand to know what she’s thinking. I want to own her body and control every choice she makes, and that idea scares me almost as much as it turns me the fuck on.
