He pointed at the plate.
“Where is yours?”
Instead of answering he picked up the knife and fork and laid them out of my reach. Then, using his fingers, he picked up a piece of meat and held it out to me. Confused, I moved to take it with my hand, but he pulled back. He shook his head and his eyes smoldered through the mask.
“Open your mouth.”
“Peregrine,” I whispered. “This is embarrassing.”
He held it out again and, realizing we were being watched and not wanting to make a scene, I opened my mouth and let him feed me. A satisfied smirk ghosted his crooked lips and he licked his fingers. Flushing and confused, I reached for the wine, but he gripped my wrist. Without speaking he picked up the cup and brought it to my lips, allowing me to drink.
“Peregrine,” I begged quietly. “I can feed myself.”
He leaned in until his mask brushed my jaw and his breath was hot against my throat.
“Do you feel ashamed, Lia?” he whispered.
I nodded.
“Good. I want you to be ashamed. I want you to feel so small, so broken that you’re begging to be on your knees by the end of the night.”
My throat tightened as I gazed up at him and for the first time I truly saw the monster inside.
“You’re such a perfect angel,” he said.
Hope sprang in my chest. While I didn’t think he was angry, I also didn’t understand why he wanted me to feel embarrassment. But the way he was looking at me, with soft, almost paternal benevolence, made me realize this was something new. Maybe his monster wasn’t so terrifying after all. Maybe his monster was the only thing that truly understood what I needed.
Because I was beginning to realize I was wet with shame.
The room was a dark swirl around us as he fed me from his plate. My hesitation eased and I found myself sinking against his chest. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed against my pussy. The continuous pressure stirred something in me and my hips shifted. My God, that felt good. He stroked my hair, smirking, and his eyes dropped.
“You may grind,” he said. “But you have to stop when I say.”
Aching for relief, I tried to shift my hips so it wasn’t obvious. The firm muscles of his thigh pressed against my clit and a heavy ache moved through me. I turned my face into his neck, glad that so far no one was looking our way, and ground desperately against him. Chasing the little spark deep within me.
It came alive, the touch of his tattooed hands like oxygen to my flames. I rocked and he watched me passively through the marble mask. I felt the attention shift in the room to us, but I barely cared. As long as he sanctioned what I did, I was willing to accept the shame he wanted me to feel.
My grip tightened.
“No,” he said softly. “Stop.”
It took everything I had, but I obeyed. He gripped my jaw softly and his eyes were stone. All the warmth gone. His face, half covered by the mask, was regal and cut with dark shadows. His mouth was a firm, brutal line in his jaw.
“Please,” I panted. “Take me somewhere, fuck me.”
“Needy, little thing. No, you’ll wait.”
“Then let me touch myself,” I begged, barely audible.
“No,” he said. “I am the source of your pleasure tonight, Lia. If you touch yourself without my permission I’ll punish you for putting your hands on my property.”
I gasped, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. My breasts throbbed against my dress, heat curled in my stomach, and the place between my thighs was a mess. And yet, despite everything, I was drawn to him with a pull so strong I couldn’t consider disobeying him. He was too enigmatic, too commanding, too certain of what he wanted.
“Do you trust me, Lia?” he asked, his voice almost cruel.
“I think so,” I stammered, unsure what he meant.
He pushed me off his lap and spread his knees. It took me a moment to realize what he wanted and a flush moved through me like a wave. My throat went hot and I looked into his eyes and considered protesting. But his eyes burned past his mask and to the bottom of my soul. And he mouthed the words again.