Page 28 of Twisted Addiction
Dmitri’s gaze lifted slowly, eyes icy and unreadable, pinning me in place as if I were a mere insect under a microscope. “What you hate or like holds no weight in my house,” he said, flat, final.
The words hit harder than any blow, but I forced myself to mask the sting, reminding myself I was still a prisoner here, my autonomy a fragile illusion.
I adjusted my posture, pretending I had rights I didn’t.
He returned to his meal, indifferent, as if my defiance were nothing more than background noise.
Defiance coiled quietly in my veins as I moved toward the dining table.
I reached for the tray, intent on carrying it to the living room, anywhere but here, when his hand shot out, gripping my arm with a firmness that stopped me cold.
“Sit,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding.
“No.” I yanked against his hold, my pulse spiking, but his grip didn’t budge.
“Sit, Penelope,” he repeated, his tone unyielding, his icy blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
“No.” I twisted my arm again, desperation creeping in, but in a swift, fluid motion, he rose from his chair and pulled me to his side with a gentleness that felt alien, almost disorienting.
Before I could process it, he guided me down onto his lap, my body settling against his as if I weighed nothing.
The sudden intimacy sent a jolt through me, my insecurities crashing like a tidal wave.
My plus-size frame felt heavier than ever, the old wounds of his past body-shaming words slicing through my mind.
Yet, his hands—one resting possessively on my thigh, the other steadying my waist—held me with a confidence that made me feel light, almost delicate.
The heat of his body seeped into mine, sparking an electric current I hated to acknowledge, a flutter of butterflies in my stomach that betrayed my resolve.
His touch, firm yet careful, ignited a warmth I didn’t want to feel, a dangerous pull that made my breath catch.
I squirmed, not out of disgust but out of fear—fear that he’d soon mock my weight, that this moment of tenderness was a prelude to cruelty.
“Let me go,” I said, pushing against him, but his grip tightened, keeping me pinned to his lap.
“You’re hungry, no?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft, his hand on my thigh sending a shiver up my spine that I couldn’t suppress.
“I... I am...” I stammered, my usual fire flickering under the weight of his proximity. “But I don’t want to eat here.”
My boldness had evaporated, replaced by a strange, disarming vulnerability, as if his touch had siphoned my defiance.
His left hand remained on my thigh, a steady anchor, while his right hand reached for his spoon, scooping a portion of his bland risotto.
He raised it to my lips, the gesture so intimate it felt like a violation.
I turned my head sharply, glaring at the spoon. “I don’t need you to feed me. And I don’t like food without spice—I made my own.”
He set the spoon down with a deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I’m hungry too,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.
“Then eat,” I shot back, gesturing to his untouched plate.
He grunted, a low, primal sound, and leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Not for this,” he said, nodding at the risotto. “For you, my wife.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, a fierce blush I couldn’t hide, and I tried to stand, desperate to escape before he saw how his words affected me.
But his hands tightened, keeping me firmly in place, and I felt it—a subtle shift beneath me, the unmistakable hardening of his arousal pressing against me through his trousers.
