Page 61 of Creed

His words sound like a blend of a soft command and a gentle question—such contrasting qualities for this man who always exudes strength, confidence, and power.

“I should go.”

He frowns, his eyes skating over me. Not in a sexual way, but in that quiet, assessing way of his. “You’re pale and have lost weight. You’ll join me and eat.”

For as gentle and soft as he is with me, that dominating, commanding side likes to appear.

And damn if I don’t love that. It’s like the little submissive hidden inside me preens at his tone and words, so eager to follow his commands. ‘She’ didn’t exist before Creed and has been quiet with his absence, but she responds to him now.

He holds out his hand to me, and I slip my hand into his, silently begging him not to whisper ‘good girl’ because I’ll be a goner if he does. Submissiveness be damned; I’ll push him onto the bed, rip off his clothes, and ride him until we’re both exploding.

Thankfully, he doesn’t say those words. But the slow circles on the back of my hand as he holds it are playing with my control just as much.

He pulls the chair out for me, then pushes it in when I sit. But he doesn’t move away immediately; instead, he plays with a tendril of hair that escaped my messy bun until he finally lifts the lids off all the dishes.

My eyes widen, and I laugh lightly. “This isn’t a meal, Creed. It’s a feast.”

I eye the appetizer platter, which includes smoked salmon, mini tourtieres, shrimp tartlets, and bruschetta. Then, there’s fettuccine carbonara with thick slices of seasoned grilled chicken. The beans are lightly sauteed with garlic. I don’t even think I’ll touch the salad, because why focus on blah greens when these delectable dishes are in front of me?

The salad, compared to all that goodness, is like me trying to imagine myself with any other man besides Creed—none could compare or satisfy me in the same way.

Which means I’m destined for singlehood. I might as well throw in the towel now and become a nun.

“Would you like me to dish you up?”

On a platter for you to devour, yes.

I squeeze my thighs together, fighting the visions of him laying me across this table, kneeling between my legs, and eating me as the feast.

I clear my throat. “No.”

I focus on the food and take something from every dish. My appetite has been in the toilet for the past two months; food hardly has a taste, and I’ve buried myself in schoolwork and often forget to eat until the end of the day. This smells heavenly, though, and my stomach rumbles, which makes Creed smile.

On the first bite of the shrimp tartlet, my suspicions are confirmed: food finally tastes again, now that Creed is here with me.

“How are your classes this semester?”

“Good.” I wipe the corner of my mouth. “I have one with a huge assignment that accounts for a hundred percent of my grade, so that’s daunting.”

“What’s the assignment?”

“To make a full business proposal.”

“Good thing you know someone in business, then.”

My eyes flick up to him. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I guess it is.”

“If you have any questions, or want to use me as a soundboard, I’m happy to do so.”

“Thanks.” I consider his offer as I drink the perfect ratio of ginger ale, club, and lime.

Could I do this? Have contact with him, keep him in my life, even if it was on the periphery, in a platonic way? Could I keep that connection hidden from my family? Was it right to do so? How fair was that to either of us? Would it cause us more pain to remain in touch, even if we couldn’t be together because I wasn’t willing to put myself first?

The questions go off in my head rapid-fire, and my head swims as I consider my options.

Keeping in contact with him, secretly and platonically, is wrong for both of us. Hurtful.

But having lived two months without him, with only the one-sided daily texts and voicemails from him, has been hell and painful. That hellish pain hadn’t eased as time went on; if anything, it got worse.

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