Page 11 of Morsel

My jaw tightens. My mother may not have given me much, but I’ve got her dark blue eyes, clear skin, and tall height, and that means I’m attractive to most women. On top of that, I’ve got short, golden-brown hair women seem to like running their fingers through. I’m muscular too; men think twice about fighting me, and sexually submissive women like Mona find my physical power appealing. It helps that I keep my carbs down, concentrate on protein, and workout in the field whenever I have extra energy. I’ve never been more grateful for my appearance than right now, and if that’s what draws Mona to me, then I’ll have to thank my dead mother later.

“I have to see you again,” I say. “Where can I find you?”

She smirks, and that sly expression guts me, like I’m the pig and she’s the butcher in charge of my carcass. I want to smash into her body, my dick like a knife, killing her and fucking her at the same time.

No—I want to fuck her vagina with a knife until it’s pulp, then eat it like it’s a bolognese.

“Come to my office tomorrow,” she says.

Not her studio. Her office. That means at the university. Earlier this week, I sat in on one of her lectures and kept myself hidden in the back row. I can’t tell her that though. I don’t want to scare her.

“Where’s your office?” I ask.

She laughs, then brushes my shoulder with her fingertips.

“You’ll find me,” she says. “Won’t you, love?”

My body flames. She passes me, her ass shimmying with each step, and I lick my lips. Her rump is round, bigger than her breasts are, and I have this gut instinct that her ass will taste like a honey-glazed ham.

She returns to her adoring fans, and it isn’t lost on me that she dismissed me again. This time though, I asked for a second chance.

And she granted it.

Chapter 5

Giant oak trees stretch across the quad, and the outer rim is lined with departmental buildings. A lion’s roar blasts with a gust of wind, the ever-present reminder that the university neighbors the city zoo. I head across the green lawn, past a quiet yoga class, past a guitar player strumming an irritating folk song, and past a survey table. I don’t need a campus guide. I know where she is.

Mona Milk’s office is on the fourth floor of the arts building, in the luxury corner office saved for visiting faculty.

Before I can knock on the double doors, they swing open. A young woman—the edges of her large areolas poking out of her cleavage, too exposed to be a college student—zips past me, rank of perfume. Jasmine. It’s an organic scent, but it’s too strong, covering up a woman’s natural, savory undertones. It isn’t appetizing.

Then Mona catches my eye, and everything else disappears.

A tight, black dress with peek-a-boo cutouts clings to Mona’s body. A portion of her stomach is exposed, her innie belly button like a giant pore waiting to be filled with truffle oil. Her straight, black hair frames her face, and dark makeup circles her eyes. I don’t mind the makeup with Mona. Since we have the same interests, I can let that slide.

She appraises me, her tongue snaking across her bottom lip.

Desire pulses in my fingers. I want to squeeze her soft flesh so fucking bad.

“So you’re hungry for another treat,” she says.

She winks at me, and my jaw strains. Is she mocking me? It’s not like I’m the only one who is into cannibalism roleplay. She is too. She’s the one who put up the ad in the first fucking place.

I start to shake my head, contempt swimming in my head. But Mona steps to the side so I can enter her office, and I force myself to relax. I need to take this one step at a time. I can’t be too careful with Mona.

A floor-to-ceiling window overlooks the quad, and because of the office’s high position, there’s a view between the buildings straight to the lion’s den at the zoo. I squint; I see trees and metal bars, but I can’t see any lions.

In the natural light from the windows, Mona glides toward her desk. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, like a ghost that could evaporate at any moment. Haunting, yet beautiful.

I rub a hand across my jaw. Stubble pricks across my chin—I must’ve missed a spot—and under her eyes, I’m very aware of it.

Despite my flaws, her smile stays. I force my shoulders to loosen. She invited me here, I remind myself. If she doesn’t like the haggard look, then she can go fuck herself.

I take the seat in front of her desk. The office is filled with cameras: vintage models and the newest editions, some of them for pictures and others for recording. She must be constantly cataloging her life.

“You found my personal ad,” she says.

I peer at the zoo’s metal fences off in the distance and guage how to play my cards right. Mona may be testing me again like she did with the wine bath, and that irritates me.

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