“Tell me.”
“I’ve dated a thousand men like you.”
“A thousand?” he said dryly. “When do you have time to sleep?”
“Are you slut shaming me?”
“No, mistress.”
I motioned towards him. “You’re handsome. Privileged. You probably never had a bad day in your life. You’ve been handed everything on a silver platter…but you know, deep down, you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve your fancy watch. You don’t deserve your mother doting on you. You don’t deserve the women who get on their knees and suck you without asking for anything in return, because they’re just sogratefulto be honored with your monster cock. How am I doing?”
He didn’t answer. He just swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed, and I knew I’d hit a nerve.
Good. He was going to have to get used to being uncomfortable around me.
“Sock,” I said. Gently, he nudged my sock back onto my foot.
He’d stopped bitching. Already, he was learning how to be obedient. I smiled.
“Don’t worry, pretty boy. I’m here to set your karma right.”
There it was. That shine in his eyes. An edge of hopefulnessbehind that dark cynicism.He wanted to be punished.This was a man who liked getting into trouble. I made a mental note to be careful with how much leash I gave him.
The boundaries were as much for his sake as for mine. The deeper our conversation went, the more I felt the ambient vibes of Cure melt around us until there was nothing but me, and Dorian, and his intense eyes, staring right through me. He was calm the whole evening. Collected. But there was this energy around him—a bit like being near a dog with a muzzle. He seemed capable of biting, and with the way the evening was going, I thought I might let him. I might enjoy punishing him for his teeth, too.
I might enjoy this all a bittoo much.
We’d been sitting here—what? Twenty minutes? And neither of us had touched our drinks, the condensation soaking the napkins underneath.
“How’s your drink?” I asked him pointedly.
A wry smile. “I have no idea.”
Go ahead, Dove. Tell him what to do. He wants it.
“Drink,” I demanded.
He lifted the thin glass to his mouth, tilted it, and started drinking.
It shouldn’t be this erotic. The way his lips kissed the glass. Watching the hollow of his throat contract and expand with every swallow. His gaze still trained on me. I was so hypnotized, he was halfway through before I realized: he wasn’t stopping. And he wouldn’t. He waschuggingthe cocktail, all because I’d told him to drink.
Which felt a lot like:yes, you’re giving orders, but who’s in control here, really?
Little brat.
I frowned. “Stop.”
He did. He took a deep breath. What was left was mostly ice.
He motioned to the bartender. “Another round, please.”
We had a second cocktail. Then a third. The more we talked, the less I knew him. Apart from our rapid-fire interrogation, he was a master at dodging the personal questions. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help myself. I started spilling as though it was my own personal therapy session. I told him about how I’d come to New York to attend art school, but found breaking into mural art was harder than anticipated, and a lot ofknowingthe right people. I told him about my earliest trauma (parent’s divorce). I told him about Ophelia and sprinkled in a few details of our adventures, all while never bringing up Shawn. Dorian stayed mostly quiet, listening, and occasionally interjecting to ask a question.
“What’s your family like?” he asked.
The night was winding down and I could feel the alcohol rosying my cheeks. “I thought family was off limits.”
“Myfamily is off limits. I want to know about yours.”
