Page 19 of Bossh*le Daddy
Then, because some part of me needed to push back against his casual takeover of my life, I added under my breath: "Bossy."
That made him look up, and the faint curve of his mouth sent heat spiraling through my belly. Not his boardroom smirk or his predatory smile, but something softer. Amused. Like my tiny rebellion was cute rather than insubordinate.
"If I weren't bossy," he said, setting his phone aside and moving closer, "you'd probably skip meals and faint on me."
He stopped just outside of touching distance, but I could feel the heat of him, smell that cologne that had branded itself into my memory. This close, I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes had gone darker in my dim kitchen lighting.
"I wouldn’t. I haven’t fainted for months.”
My cheeks warmed under his scrutiny, and I ducked my head, but not before catching the way his expression softened further. He leaned one hip against the table, casual in a way that was anything but, and delivered the killing blow in that dry tone that made my insides liquid:
"You're lucky you're cute."
I pressed my thighs together under the table, grateful for the coverage of the dress, trying to ignore the way my body responded to his casual assessment. He was ordering me food. Taking care of me. Calling me cute in my disaster of a kitchen while I sat there in a gown that cost more than everything else I owned combined.
The contrast of it all—the domestic care wrapped in D/s dynamics, the attraction thrumming between us even as he scolded me for not eating—made my head spin. Or maybe that was still the hunger. Or him. Probably him.
My phone buzzed with the delivery notification he'd set up, and he straightened, moving toward the door with that same purposeful stride.
"Thirty minutes," he said over his shoulder. "Think you can survive that long without passing out?"
The teasing note in his voice made my stomach flip.
"I'll try," I managed, my voice only slightly breathless.
His smile this time was full of promise. "Good girl.”
*
The food arrived in containers that looked too elegant for takeout—smooth white boxes that opened to reveal meals that belonged in magazines, not in my cramped kitchen with its water-stained ceiling and mismatched chairs. Steam rose from the salmon, pink and perfect on its bed of wild rice, accompanied by vegetables so bright they looked painted. A crusty baguette, still warm. A salad with greens I couldn't name, glistening with vinaigrette that smelled like summer.
He plated everything with the same precision he used in every part of his life—each component given its proper space, nothing touching, nothing chaotic. When he set the plate before me, it looked like an impossible task. A feast for someone who knew how to feast, not someone who'd been subsisting on toast and stubbornness.
"I'm not that hungry," I started, the lie automatic. My stomach chose that moment to growl, loud in the quiet kitchen, betraying me completely.
His eyes found mine, one eyebrow raised in that way that meant he saw through every defense I'd tried to erect. "Yes," he cut in calmly, pulling out the chair beside me with deliberate intent, "you are. Eat."
The command should have rankled. Should have made me bristle with the indignation of being ordered around in myown home. Instead, my body responded with that now-familiar warmth, that pull toward obedience that he seemed to trigger with just his voice.
I picked up the fork with trembling fingers, the weight of it feeling enormous. The first piece of salmon I cut was too big, then too small, my hands shaking as I tried to perform this simple task under his watchful gaze. When I finally managed to spear a reasonable bite, I just stared at it, my throat closing up with something that wasn't quite hunger but wasn't quite fear either.
The lettuce was easier to contemplate, safer. I poked at it with my fork, moving pieces around the plate like a child trying to make it look like I'd eaten. The vinaigrette pooled in the corner, golden and fragrant, and I focused on that instead of the way he'd gone still beside me, patience radiating from him like heat.
"Isla." He spoke so softly to me.
When I looked up, he was studying me with those gray eyes that missed nothing. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice. Then he reached over and plucked the fork from my unresisting fingers with the same authority he'd taken my keys.
"Open," he said, his voice dropping to that register that turned my bones to liquid.
My lips parted automatically, obedience bypassing conscious thought. He'd already speared a perfect bite—salmon with just a touch of the rice, balanced and careful. When he brought it to my mouth, his other hand came up to cup my chin, steadying me with a touch so gentle it made my eyes burn.
The first bite hit my tongue like a revelation. Butter and herbs and something bright I couldn't name. I'd forgotten food could taste like this, had been living on fuel instead of flavor for so long that the sensation was almost overwhelming. I closed my eyes without meaning to, a small sound escaping that might have been pleasure or relief or both.
"That's it," he murmured, and the approval in his voice sent warmth spiraling through me that had nothing to do with the food. His thumb brushed against my chin, catching a drop of something—sauce, maybe, or just the overwhelmed tears that were threatening to spill.
I chewed slowly, swallowed carefully, hyperaware of his attention on my throat as it worked. When I opened my eyes, he was already preparing the next bite with the same deliberate care.
"Good girl."
