Page 32 of Little Mate

Want.

Hunger.

“You’re going to be the best kind of trouble, Miss Moore. The reward I don’t deserve but will never forfeit.” Lowering his face to mine, he nips my jaw. “But it’s time to feed you. I’ll be right back.”

Then he’s gone. Before I can blink, the room is empty, and the door is closed.

I’m left to my thoughts and how easy things are between us. Feel.

I’m also giddy. Happy.

“Sit up and back on the pillow, please.”

“Gods,” I scream, having not paid attention, much less thinking that he’d be back so soon. But there he is at the foot of the bed now with a domed plate in his hands, brow arched. “Do I need to put a bell on you?”

“Lost in thought?”

“No.”

“Liar.” Placing the food atop the bed, he walks over and moves me with ease, propping me against the headboard with a few pillows behind my back. Once he’s satisfied I’m comfortable, he retakes the plate and sits beside me, his body turned toward me.

I’m watching him with curiosity, not understanding, until the top is removed, and he picks up a bite of strawberry with the tip of his fingers, bringing it to my lips. He rubs it there, a soft caress before pushing it between my lips.

Not that I fight it, my mouth opens for him without hesitation, and I chew, licking the bit of residue off his digit before swallowing the juicy bite. And he enjoys it, groaning while offering me the next bite. This time, it’s a blackberry. It’s sweet with just the right amount of tartness that he adds a kiss to after I swallow.

Each piece of fruit that follows is the same; he feeds me until there’s nothing left in the bowl before offering me a buttery croissant with jam, a morsel at a time.

He takes pride in this. In caring for me.

Theodore is the antithesis of everything I’d thought he’d be.

10

GABRIELLA

“How in control of your gift are you?” he asks me late into the night. The sun rose and set, leaving behind total darkness inside the large room where we lay in bed—something he remedied by lighting a few candles before returning to his preferred place: my chest to his, and his cock nestled between us.

Even through the layers of clothing that separate us, I feel every inch—each jerk—and it’s getting harder and harder to not reach out and touch it. The bond pulses, it pulls us closer, and I welcome the sensation—has fast become second nature.

My clothes feel constricting, although my dress is thin and considered seductive by modern society. To my people, though, this is our normal. We don’t like restrictions, nor do we push away our nature: the need to feel free and unencumbered by heavy layers meant to keep you pure and modest.

Purity comes from within. Modesty comes from self-respect, not thick cotton.

Theo hums to himself then, his fingers trailing down my spine. It feels as though he’s counting—memorizing every bump of my spine. “You haven’t answered, pretty girl.” His voice is low, and his leg is thrown over my hip, our bodies in constant contact while a low purr vibrates through his chest.

The sound is lulling, so calming that I almost ignore the nickname once again. Pretty girl.

Just like the warmth that seeps from his skin to mine, he feels good. Like my home—something I’d lost after my parents’ death. It’s comfort and love and a feeling of internal peace that calms every raging thought or endless worry over what’s to come.

I have him. I’m not alone. Did Isabella have the same luck? Is she okay?

Lifting my head slightly from its position on his shirt-covered chest, I meet his amber eyes. “Why do you call me, pretty girl?”

“Because that’s what you are.” Lowering his head, he pecks my lips twice. “Do you not like it?”

“I do.”

“Do you know why that is?”

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