Page 68 of Until I Own You

“Goes best with liver and fava beans, actually,” Solomon says.

Mom rolls her eyes. “Ugh, enough with The Silence of the Lambs,” she says, then wiggles under my arm and gives me a fond hug.

“Enough? Has there been more than one Hannibal Lecter joke today?” I ask.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Solomon gets a shit-eating grin, then gets up too, groaning with a hand on his back. “I can’t sit on the floor like that anymore, Mimi.”

I gnaw on my lower lip and look around the room one more time as if Bridget will somehow appear out of nowhere. I don’t want to ask where she is for fear of rousing suspicion.

The doorbell rings, and Mom jumps. “Oh, that must be the food!”

“I got it.” I disentangle myself from my mom’s embrace and turn back into the hallway.

I run right into Bridget, my chest colliding with her shoulder, throwing both of us off balance.

Bridget screeches, grabs onto me, dragging us both down.

Darla hisses and scrambles out of the way before the two of us fall right up against the wall of the thin hallway.

Effectively, I have Bridget pinned up against the wall, my body pressed to hers.

My entire body.

Her chest heaves against mine, her green eyes wide.

One of her hands clings to my bicep, tight and needy.

She’s clearly put on makeup, her lips slick and glossy, lashes long and fluttery. And her long, dark hair waves down her shoulders.

I’ve missed having her face so close.

And the blue ribbon around her neck…

Fuck, I’m getting hard.

“Hi, Seth,” she squeaks.

“H-hi.”

“You two okay?” Solomon asks from over my shoulder.

I straighten up as quick as I can.

We lingered way too long in a precarious position.

“Great, I just pressed this,” I say in a dry voice to add a tinge of realism to the interaction. After all, the way my mom and Solomon know us is tension-filled and constantly bickering.

“Sorry about that,” Bridget says, avoiding my eyes.

I have to bite back a smile.

That’s the way a docile sub should be. And from what I gather, Bridget wants the full experience. Which means she will always be at the mercy of my domination, even when we’re around others.

“Bridget, you don’t have to apologize for something like that, my goodness,” my mom huffs, patting Bridget on the shoulder. “He’s just a grump. I don’t know where he gets it from.”

Neither my mom nor my dad were the prickly type. I guess Mom should take it up with my trauma.

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