Page 43 of Savage Game
“Some.” She traced the outline of her fork and chewed her bottom lip. “Aside from taking care of people and a household I don’t have many skills, but maybe I can get a job cleaning or waitressing.”
Leaning forward, Byron placed his palm over her restless fingers. “You have many more capabilities than you imagine. How about becoming a secretary?”
“What?” Her mouth fell open, and she snapped it shut as soon as she realized she must be as unattractive as a gaping fish.
Chuckling, he patted her hand. “Don’t look so shocked, dear. You’ve been a great help for me.”
“Uhuh.”
He tilted his head and gave her a stern stare from underneath his eyebrows. “You think I’m lying?”
She shrugged and gazed at the empty plate in front of her. At his signature admonishing sound, she looked up again.
“Better.”
He nodded and his irises reminded her of the blue of a warm summer sky and cornflowers.
“Honesty and trust between a sub and her Dom are important, Kittycat. You’ve learned to trust me with your body. Can you trust me in this as well?”
Trust my Dom? But he’s not mine, at least not past their month agreement.
“I do trust you. It’s just…” she broke off mid-sentence, not sure how to continue.
He squeezed her fingers and let go of her hand when their server brought their starters. “Maybe your intellect trusts me to accept I’m telling the truth, but your self-doubt isn’t ready to let go. Since your bastard of a husband spent your entire adult life convincing you how worthless you are, I guess we can’t expect your mind to let go of that notion overnight, can we?”
She shook her head as she mulled on his words. “You could be right.”
He picked up his spoon and dipped it into his soup. “Let’s eat, kitten, before it gets cold.”
She nodded, dipped her spoon, and took a careful sip from the lobster bisque.
Creamy liquid, the mild and slightly sweet taste of lobster, cognac, and a hint of cayenne burst on her tongue, and her eyelids dropped, and she moaned.
“That good, huh?” he teased.
When she opened her eyes, she met his now midnight blue stare, and her cheeks heated.
“It is,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “Why? Isn’t your soup to your liking?”
“Oh, yes. I like it very much indeed.” His eyes darkened further, and his cheekbones stood out more prominently.
She wasn’t sure he was talking about soup anymore.
Before she could decide if she wanted to eat or talk, a shadow fell over her, and an unwelcome voice whispered, “Well, well, if it isn’t the whore and her fuck of the month.”
Michael Connolly stood closer than polite society allowed and—worse—too close for her comfort.
She shrank back in her seat.
“Leave my woman alone, Connolly.” Byron’s voice was colder than when he’d ripped the general management from the plant in Seattle a new one after the security audit.
“Your woman?” Connolly sneered. “The cunt is married to my friend.”
“If you don’t have something pleasant to say to my companion, you might want to shut up altogether.” Byron slowly rose. “Whatever you do, you will step back and keep a respectful distance, or I’ll have you thrown out.”
Connolly puffed out his chest. “You don’t have the guts or the influence to do so.”
“Don’t I?”
