Page 54 of Unhinged

I blink at him. "What?"

"Put your hands behind your head."

I stare at him, but his face is pure control. Cold, quiet authority. I do it. My fingers are laced behind my head like I’m under arrest, my chest arching just a little. His eyes flick down and back up.

“You just want my nipples pushing against this tee, don’t you?”

With a noncommittal grunt, he picks up a wing.

I expect him to pass it to me. He doesn’t. He holds it up to my mouth, and for one long second, we both just breathe.

"Open."

I do.

He slides the meat between my lips, slowly, watching every second like he’s committing it to memory. I take a bite, tongue flicking out to catch the sauce, and his pupils blow wide.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

Mmm. I like that.

He wipes his thumb along my lower lip, collecting a streak of sauce, and holds it up like a dare. Without thinking, I lean forward and lick his thumb.

His breath hitches.

My tongue flicks along the calloused pad, tasting salt and grease. I mean to pull back after, but his free hand tangles in my hair and holds me there—his thumb slipping deeper, just past my lips.

"Messy little thing," he mutters.

I bite down on his thumb, just enough to make him feel it—and his control slips, just a crack. He drags it along my tongue before pulling away.

"You like teasing me," he says, low and dark.

"You like feeding me," I shoot back.

His smile is sharp enough to cut. "You’ve got no idea."

He picks up a fry next, dragging it slowly through the pool of ketchup, and brings it to my mouth. I take it—lips brushing his fingers, sucking the salt right off his skin. He watches, transfixed.

"More," I whisper.

He feeds me rice next, and I take it from his fingers, deliberately licking the grains off his skin one by one, my tongue tracing each knuckle. His breathing turns rough, his jaw tight. It’s messy and raw, and I’m loving every second.

"Careful," he warns.

"Or what?"

He shakes his head in response. “I won’t be able to hold myself back anymore, and we’ll have to skip dessert.”

His voice is all gravel and promise.

"Depends. What’s on the menu?"

I didn’t order dessert.

He grabs my ankles, dragging me down the couch until I’m sprawled beneath him. My shirt rides up, and his hand slides along my bare thigh, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles.

Oh.

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