“Are you fucking joking?”
“Spaghettis a safer bet. No one hates spaghetti.”
He grabs a large brown pack off the desk and rips it open.
“What is that?”
“Your lunch.” He approaches, then his brow lowers. “Better check your mouth first.”
He sets down the pack and grabs a flashlight. “Open up.”
“No.”
But as the word tumbles from my lips, he shoves his fingers in my mouth, prying it open.
Gage is fucking terrible in a way I never expected. He’s not throwing me on the bed and raping me. He’s invasive as fuck, and weirdly so.
His fingers stroke the inside of my mouth, pulling and stretching, his eyes looking inside me intensely with the flashlight. He pinches my tongue and yanks it from my mouth.
I salivate wildly, drooling everywhere, practically choking on my spit.
When he finally releases me, I struggle to catch my breath.
“I-I can’t believe you just…fuck, what was that? Invading my mouth like you did.”
“Just wait till it’s my cock.”
I kick my leg forward, but he anticipates my reaction, catching it.
He smiles at me, amused, like a father that’s proud of his kid when he hits his first ball. The kid is sloppy, and not really good at anything, but the dad sees potential.
I shake my head, banishing any thought of Gage that sees him as somehow human.
“I’m going to feed you now.”
For the next twenty minutes, he feeds me spaghetti, peanut butter, raisins, breadsticks, powdered fucking chocolate that he mixes on the spot, jelly, and a chocolate chip pastry. During which, my confused little brain almost decides not to hate him. I have to quickly remind myself that he parted my butt cheeks and he’s fucking horrible.
When I’m done, he takes a moist toilette and starts dabbing my face. Something about the act of being taken care of, like I’m a child, stirs the heat welling inside of me.
Because somehow Stockholm Syndrome can develop in all of an hour.
I clear my throat. “That was weirdly good, and parts of it were almost normal.”
“They’re high calorie meals meant to get soldiers through deployment.”
“I really don’t need that many calories.”
“Yes, you do.”
I decide not to argue.
Now that he’s standing in front of me, I realize he’s shirtless, looking more beast than man with tattoos lining his arms and covering his chest.
I wonder how it is even possible for his shoulders and arms to bulge with so much muscle. Steroids? I don’t think there’s an ounce of fat on him.
Then I realize I’m not the only one who’s staring.
But I am the only one that’s completely naked.