My eyes sting. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll cry.”
“Crying is allowed.”
“Not in this time zone, it isn’t. There’s a fine. You have to pay it in chocolate croissants.”
He laughs. “Your rules are wild.”
“I let you do the whole boss me around shit, so you can pay the croissant charge.”
There’s a knock and Dario goes full five-star, robe half-on, hair a mess. I ogle his ass like I paid a cover charge, then sprawl back and practice my debauched empress look for the poor soul with the room service cart.
He returns wheeling a cart loaded with more food than two people could reasonably consume.
“I said everything,” he reminds me.
“I see that.”
Strawberries. Chocolate croissants. A tray of pastries. Eggs benedict. Fresh fruit. Some kind of elaborate yogurt parfait.
“Is that champagne?”
“Mimosas. It’s nearly noon.”
“It is?”
“Time flies when you’re being thoroughly ravished.”
I choke on a laugh. “Did you just say ravished?”
“I did.” He climbs back into bed with the tray of strawberries. “Open.”
“What?”
“Open your mouth. I’m feeding you.”
“I can feed myself.”
“I’m aware. Open.”
I open my mouth. He places a strawberry on my tongue. Watches me chew and swallow with that focused attention that should be unnerving and is instead unbearably hot.
“Another?”
“Please.”
He feeds me strawberries. Then chocolate. Then bites of croissant that he tears off with his fingers and places directly in my mouth while I lie there like some kind of debauched Roman empress.
“This is ridiculous,” I say between bites.
“This is aftercare.”
“Aftercare usually involves water and maybe a blanket.”
“I think aftercare should always involve pastries. Blanket’s optional, orgasms are not.” He wipes a bit of chocolate from my lip with his thumb. Licks it off. “Any complaints?”
