But those weren’t things I was ready to confess to him.
Maybe we both had scars we weren’t ready to show.
Instead, what came out of my mouth was: “I don’t.”
Dorian blinked. His head tilted like a confused dog. I could see the next question starting to form on his tongue but…
My phone rang.Ding-a-ling-a-ling!
I clicked the side buttons, silencing it. “Time is up.” I told him. His lips thinned, and I could sense his disappointment. I lifted my eyebrows with faux confusion. “What?”
“I just…have more questions.”
“Aw. You’re the one who didn’t want to get to know each other. Don’t write checks you can’t cash, baby girl.” I tucked my phone away. “Now. I think we have to address the elephant in the room. You were late.”
“By seven minutes,” he reminded me.
I stretched forward.Time to remind him who’s in charge. “So let’s talk about your punishment.”
Dorian, to his credit, didn’t flinch or shy away. Instead, he held my gaze and said: “Alright.”
Under the table, I used one foot to kick the boot off the other. “You’re going to rub my feet.”
His eyes briefly widened. “Here?”
“Right now.” I slid my foot up his thigh and into his lap. I wiggled my toes. “Sock.”
His gaze flitted around briefly, gauging to see if anyone noticed me going shoeless in a nice-ass wine bar. Then, underneath the table, he undressed my foot. “Nice clocks,” he said, referring to the cute little illustrated clocks printed on my socks. He peeled my sock off so my bare heel rested in his lap.
I tapped it against his thigh. “Afraid of it?”
His eyes met mine. “No.” He cradled my foot in his hand. Slowly, he began to press in.
Oh. This wasn’t a soft, tickling rub. He was really going in. He cracked my toes. Kneaded the balls of my feet. When he dug his thumbs into the painful arch, I moaned.
His dark eyebrows furrowed. Angry. “Quiet.”
I scoffed. Him? Givingmeorders? “Excuse me?”
“You’re making a scene,” he complained.
“Don’t worry, no one’s looking at you. They’re looking at me.”
He jammed his thumb on the arch of my foot. A knot burst and pleasure exploded. I hiccupped on a gasp and I felt my cheeks flush.
Christ, this foot rub was going to get me off. Had it been that long since I’d been touched? Yeah. Eight months. I guess so.
I tried to refocus. I shot back: “Or are you just afraid someone you know is going to walk in and see you worshipping my feet like the little pet you are?”
No response from him. But when I stretched my leg out, I felt my heel brush against the hardness of him.
He loves it when I’m mean to him.
“That’s enough,” I said. “Re-sock me.”
He did as he was told, wiggling my sock discreetly back up my ankle. I shoved my foot back in my boot and gave him the other foot, which he began to rub.
“Do you know what your problem is?” I told him.
