Page 57 of Griffin Food

He pours himself tea before sliding the cup and saucer across the desk. The sounds seem amplified—the quiet clink of porcelain, the soft rustle of paper as he opens a scroll and begins to read. Leaving me needy and kneeling, my eyes glued to the thick girth of his cock.

I stay very still, aware of his nearness, of the quiet command that always seems to fill the space between us. At first, I used to keep my eyes lowered, but now I can’t help but be aware of him, of the way he moves, breathes, even a faint scrap of his fingertips as the scroll is adjusted so he can read down.

How I itch to undo his buckle and free him of what appears to be painful bounds. To touch and taste. To savor his aroused scent directly from the source.

How his mere presence drives me utterly wild.

I feel his attention shift from the scroll to me. I don’t look up, continuing to feast my eyes upon his cock, yet knowing he is watching. When his hand reaches down to pet my hair, I lean into the touch before I can stop myself.

“You’re particularly restless today,” he rumbles. “Did your mates not give you enough attention last night?”

The tension inside me feels alive, pressing against my skin, impossible to contain. I swallow hard and shake my head.

“No?” He sounds amused.

His fingers leave my hair. I want to sob with frustration, but somehow, I bite down on my lower lip and hold it in.

He returns the scroll to the table, takes a sip of his tea, then lifts the domed lid over his food and lets it fall against the desk with a soft clatter.

He leans forward, the space between us grows charged, the bulge of his cock drawing closer. I should move back, give him space, but I don’t—I willfully stay there until the bulge is right against my cheek.

Then he takes it away, leans back, and holds out a forkful of food to me. “Open,” he says.

I obey without question, my lips parting as I wait. He pushes in a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs, and I close my lips around the mouthful. He slides the fork out slowly before brushing his thumb across my cheek as I chew and swallow.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs. His thumb trails lightly over my lips. Then he leans forward again and brushes a kiss against my forehead. The air seems to crackle like the moment before a storm.

Another forkful follows. I open. I eat. His fingers graze my lips again—gentle and deliberate.

He watches me eat.

I watch the bulge between his thighs. I’d rather be feeding on him.

“Your blush is so pretty,” he says. His fingers skim down my throat, and my breathing starts to stutter again. He casually cups my breast and lightly squeezes my nipple. The contact leaves a throbbing awareness that lingers long after he’s withdrawn and goes back to his scroll.

I kneel there, my cheeks burning. Where is this going? What comes next? Am I merely a plaything, a distraction—something he likes to touch and handle now and then? Maybe he does this with all the attendants who bring him food.

The surge of jealousy that runs through me is sharp and irrational. My involuntary growl is small and a little feral.

He stills. I feel his attention on me, but I don’t dare look. His cock flexes behind the leather.

“Get up.”

I don’t move or breathe.

“Get up, now.”

My heart beats a wild rhythm as I stumble to my feet.

“Bend over the desk.”

My eyes flash to meet his.

“Don’t make me tell you twice.” He slides the tray aside to make space. “Bend. Over. Now.”

A mini climax rocks my core as I fold myself over his desk, my naked breasts crushed against the wooden surface. This is new. Shocking. He has never told me to do this before. My mind immediately goes to those few occasions when Rafe has disciplined me… only this feels different.

I start, feeling him lift my skirts, raising them right up until my bare ass is exposed and the woolen folds are around my waist. The air feels cool against my skin, and I’m trembling violently, almost faint with nerves and anticipation. His touch is light against one ass cheek before it slides down the back of one thigh and up the other, the movements are again measured and deliberate, like he is studying my every reaction.