Page 28 of The Mob Boss' Pet

Chapter Nine

Stephania

He means to kill me with humiliation, and I fell for it. What was I thinking going along with his commands to touch myself before him? Did I really think that it would end well?

“You need to eat, Stephania,” he says, leaving me lying on the floor while he collects the tray from the dresser. My stomach grumbles.

I tuck my body in and roll over.

“No, stay down there,” he says before I can maneuver to my feet.

I crisscross my legs and pull my knees toward my chest. It’s the best position to hide in.

He stands in front of me, the tray balanced in his hands and his eyes drag down my body. An amused smile curls his lips.

“I can still see your pussy.” He makes a point of staring. “It’s making a mess on my carpet.”

I unravel my legs and reposition to cover my sex.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” I ask as he drags a chair from the small writing desk near me.

He sits and places the tray on his knees before leveling me with a hard look. People don’t ask him questions like that, I think. But I’m not one of his people. I’m his captive.

“I’m always exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he answers me coolly. “Lunch.” He gestures toward the tray. He offers me the large bowl of Caesar salad with grilled chicken laying neatly across the bed of fresh romaine.

Only to appease my growling stomach, I take the bowl. “Fork?” I ask, straining to see the tray. There’s a napkin folded neatly with a set of utensils lined on top.

“Pets don’t use forks,” he says and points to the salad. “Be grateful, Stephania, that I’m allowing you the use of your hands.”

I shrink back an inch, protectively bringing the salad closer to me. A stinging retort burns my tongue, but if I let it loose, I risk a punishment.

When did I get so cowardly? One spanking and I’m going to fall at this man’s feet and obey him like the little pet he wants to make me?

Hardly.

But I’m hungry. And if having to use my fingers is the worst that happens this afternoon, I’m all in.

The dressing coats the lettuce already, so at least I don’t have to mix the salad. Pushing away the croutons and the chicken, I pick out the lettuce and do my best to ignore his presence.

His soft chuckle makes it harder to pretend he’s not there.

“What?” I ask.

“You eat like a little rabbit,” he says with a casual shrug. “Nibbling at the lettuce the way you do.”

I shove a piece into my mouth completely and chew slowly, glaring at him. I wouldn’t be eating like this if I had utensils. It’s an old habit, taking little bites of finger foods. My cheeks heat. Of course, he would notice.

“Not a meat eater?” he asks, nudging a piece of chicken with his finger.

I raise my chin a fraction. “I eat the chicken last.”

His brows inch upward.

“What?” I demand when he keeps silent. Can’t he just make a joke about it instead of studying me like he’s trying to see into my soul?

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