Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115388 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
But I needed her to understand that she was mine now and that I wasn’t going home tonight without her.
Did she truly know that?
I wanted to reach across the table, curl my fingers around her jaw, and say it out loud—You belong to me now.
But I didn’t.
Because I had a feeling that whatever she was planning next. . .it would say everything I couldn’t.
The air thickened.
One waitress returned with a bowed head, and a single silver dog bowl. Soon, she set it down right in front of me.
What is this?
I stared at the bowl.
It was small, simple, and made of shiny, polished silver. Around the outer rim and etched into the metal were engravings of bones.
Inside, steam curled into the air in elegant ribbons. Something golden and rustic nestled at the bottom—some kind of pie, maybe. The crust was perfectly flaky, the kind of texture that shatters under a spoon but melts on one’s tongue.
The filling looked like peaches. Or some similar fruit. Bright, warm, and glistening with sugar.
The scent hit me next—cinnamon, vanilla, summer fruit, and something floral. It smelled like pleasure so intentional it bordered on cruelty.
My mouth watered.
Yet still. . . I couldn’t get over what they had put this dessert in.
A dog bowl? Why?
I pursed my lips.
Was this a mistake?
Was it a joke?
Or—more likely—was it a message?
I looked at Nyomi’s side of the table. There was no dish placed in front of her.
Is she not eating the dessert?
My pulse jumped.
She didn’t look surprised. Not even a flicker of reaction crossed her face.
My gaze slid back to the bowl. There was no collar or leash. It didn’t matter. My mind still went there immediately.
She thinks I’m going to be her little dog this evening? No. I’m the Dragon.
I looked up and seared her with my gaze.
She just watched me and didn’t even blink.
What are your plans, Tora?
I began imagining scenarios.
Would she run her fingers through my hair and call me her good boy while I licked something sweet from her hand?
I shifted in my seat, my cock twitching again—half-hard, half-terrified.
This was more than flirtation. It was a glimpse of where she could take me if I let her.
And she wasn’t just feeding me dessert. She was feeding me the idea that I could be owned.
And the sickest part?
I wasn’t sure I hated it.
I studied her. “Where is your. . .doggy bowl?”
She formed those lips into a wicked smile.
“Tora. . .” I leaned my head to the side. “I asked you a question.”
The other waitress approached silently and offered Nyomi something small and sleek.
I took it in and raised my eyebrows.
A blowtorch? Where is this going? I’m really glad she stressed us needing to have a safe word.
My heart boomed in my ears.
Still smiling at me, Nyomi cradled it in her hands.
The waitresses bowed again and disappeared, leaving only the soft jazz, the silver bowl, and a growing tension so thick I could’ve sliced it with my steak knife.
I was not used to surprises on dates but this was no longer a fucking date.
It was sensual theater on the highest level.
It was erotic power plays where I kept getting outmaneuvered.
And even more. . .it was psychological warfare dripping in sex.
And without any fucking logic at all. . .I was becoming obsessed with this night and her.
I narrowed my eyes. “What are you going to do with that flame torch.”
Still silent, she stood slowly, gathering the folds of her red leather gown with one graceful motion, and crossed the space between us.
O-kay.
Her heels whispered against the polished floor but every step she took was thunder in my bloodstream.
Tora. . .where is this going?
She stopped at my side, close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin through my suit.
She didn’t speak but at least she set the blow torch down.
A single waitress appeared again, silent as breath, and handed her a tiny glass decanter—narrow-necked, filled with something warm and gold.
Nyomi turned her focus to the bowl and uncorked the decanter with one twist. A curl of steam rose as she tilted it, and a stream of some sort of custard poured into the silver.
Slow.
Rich.
Velvet gold.
My nostrils flared as the scent hit me.
Cinnamon.
Warm vanilla.
Summer held in a pour.
My mouth watered.
This is going to be incredible.
Her voice came next—low and steady. “When I was pretty young, every summer, I had one job.”
She hadn’t look at me yet. Her gaze was still on the bowl as she poured. “I had to carry bags of peaches from my grandma’s tree to the kitchen. Honestly, she probably had me do that to keep me out of trouble.”
I imagined Nyomi young and her hands sticky with the juice of sun-ripened peaches.
“I would hold them like they were treasure. They were always so. . .sun-warm and heavy. It always made me think that summer would last forever.”