Page 19 of Morsel

I lick my lips, and this time, Mona is the one glued to my tongue.

“I want to feed you,” I say.

Damn it. That sounds like I want her to eat me. I’m probably turning her off right now.

I ball my fists. Why am I so stupid?

“You have my university email, right?” she asks. “Send me your address. I’ll come pick you up.”

I furrow my brows. “I live an hour away.”

“I like driving.”

This isn’t right. She’s leading me again, and I fucking hate it, but I can’t leave—I can’t make my mouth or my feet move to change my position.

She waves and jumps into her SUV with ease, then pulls out of the parking space.

There’s no second thought. No choice. It’s simply a demand. She will be the one picking me up. I don’t have a say in that.

Irritation blooms across my skin, hot like the outside of a boiling pot. Inviting her out should be an opportunity to show her what I’m capable of, but it’s like she’s already taken that away from me, simply by telling me she’s going to pick me up.

Or maybe she wants to fuck in the back of her car after she watches me eat a steak.

Sure, my brain argues. Tell yourself she wants to fuck a creep like you after eating steak. You fucking freak.

As her SUV disappears on the main road, the cold air and post-orgasm oxytocin numb me. I breathe slowly, glued to the same spot.

I should be grateful. Mona is out of this world. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Even if I feel like I’m a toy to her right now, that won’t last forever. I’ll make sure of that.

Chapter 8

A few days have passed since we made our dinner plans, and since then, I’ve been counting down the days until I get to see Mona again. Eating a steak with her won’t be like how it is with the sex workers; she’ll take my foreplay seriously.

I peer out of the window. Her headlights beam down the road. Our date is only minutes away now.

My stomach churns. I have this gut instinct she would understand the offal pit and the mixed ground meat. It makes me nervous to think of her in my space though.

I turn off the main generator, then meet her in the driveway. When I think about it, she’s like an unattainable goddess, and I’m the weak mortal who has built an entire altar of animal sacrifices for her. Meat. Flesh. Blood.

No, I think. If anything, I am the god who eats her.

Mona’s SUV stops beside me. I swallow my nerves, replacing it with broadened, confident shoulders. She leans over and opens the passenger door for me.

“I’m excited,” she says. “I’ve never been to this steakhouse. I hear it’s good.”

I sit and buckle up. “It is?—”

She puts her hand in my lap and squeezes my dick and balls like she’s already got me by them.

A sharp tension cuts inside of me, my vision blurring with need.

I am the god who eats her, I remind myself.

She winks. “Let’s eat some meat.”

Classical music plays from the car’s speakers. With every passing mile, I relax. This is a simple dinner date, and it’s the obvious next step in connecting with someone who shares the same interests. And that’s what I’ve always wanted.

The restaurant bustles with noise. Mona tugs me past tables filled with diners. The server gestures to our booth, and we settle into opposite sides.

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