“You want dessert?”
“Please,” I say, even though my belly is full to bursting. Might as well get all the calories I can while they’re available to me.
He leaves his plate to fill a new one for me. But instead of placing the profiteroles in front of me, he stands over me, plate in hand. “Open your mouth.”
Something about the way he says it triggers a faint alarm at the back of my head. I keep my mouth shut.
“What’s rule number one?” he asks patiently.
“Do what you fucking tell me,” I parrot back at him.
He almost smiles. “Well?”
I open my mouth and he feeds me the profiterole, his fingertips brushing my lower lip as I take a bite.
“Slowly,” he instructs, watching my mouth work. “Taste it.”
The pastry is perfect—light as air, filled with creamy vanilla custard that’s rich and silky—but I can barely concentrate on the taste with his dark eyes locked on my lips.
“Messy,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb to collect a dab of cream at the side of my mouth. He holds out his thumb, waiting until I lick it clean.
And I’m furious to discover that the cage seems to have gotten a little smaller.
He feeds me two more pastries the same way, each bite a small surrender, each brush of his fingers against my mouth making the cage bite deeper into my flesh. By the time I finish, I’m overfull and flushed with a languid heat that has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with how thoroughly this man has dismantled every boundary I have tonight. I’m comfortable. Satiated. Grateful.
Compliant.
I see what he’s doing. I see it clearly. And it’s still working.
Damiano puts the plate down and holds out his hand like we’re at a restaurant, and he’s helping his date up from the table. His hand engulfs mine, warm and firm. “There’s one more room I want to show you tonight, golden boy.”
The rich food in my stomach turns to lead.
“I told you this house was renovated with you in mind,” he continues, his voice taking on that dangerous quality that makesallthe alerts in my brain light up, flashing and honking. “But I want to show you our own private space. The place where we’ll really get to know each other.”
This is it. He’s going to take me to his bedroom, hold me down, and fuck me. And I don’t know if I’m nervous or…
Eager to get it over with.
My legs feel numb, but I manage to walk with him as he leads me to the elevator, a feature he mentioned during the tour but didn’t show me. This time he not only shows me, he pulls me into it.
It’s a claustrophobic box, barely large enough to contain Damiano’s huge frame, and covered in bronze mirrors on the inside. I have to press my naked back against his chest for usboth to fit, and I hate how solid and warm he feels, hate how I welcome his heat after so many cold nights.
There are numbered buttons for every floor of the house, but he reaches past me to press his forefinger against a special brass panel with a scanning square set into it. “This floor I’m about to show you can only be accessed by me,” he says. “We’ll have complete privacy.”
A chill runs over me despite his body heat. The elevator starts a slow downward descent.
“I wanted to make sure you enjoyed yourself when you first came into my house,” he continues. “I want you to hold on to the memory of tonight for the next year. Because I want you to remember exactly howI’llbe living up there?—”
The elevator lurches to a stop, and the doors slide open to reveal complete darkness.
“—whileyou’redown here.”
Damiano shoves me forward. I stumble into a void, one horrible second of certainty that there’s nothing beneath me—but my feet hit solid concrete and I stagger, catching myself.
Dim lights begin to glow around the ceiling’s perimeter. Soft gold, rising slowly, a false dawn.
And reality buckles. I’m…home.