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“Be a good girl and open your mouth, Lacy,” he says in a deep tone, and my eyes snap to his. Heat swirls between us. His overt flirting takes on a new level of seduction, and my mouth waters, wanting to take anything he serves. We watch each other closely for a moment, my insides taking flight as my heart rate increases before I do exactly what he says. I open my mouth, and he serves me the spoon. I move deliberately, my eyes hooked on his, swallowing the warm, tasty soup. His lips part with both appreciation and admiration, his eyes now hooked on my mouth as he takes back the spoon.
I lick my lips, running my tongue along my bottom lip slowly, and see his jaw clench. The air around us hasshifted. The tension is thick, and he’s silent as he fills the spoon again and repeats the motion.
“That’s my girl,” he soothes, his voice deep, almost a growl. My body reacts to him immediately, my heart thudding, my skin buzzing. The pleasure I feel from doing what he tells me is somewhat relaxing in a life where I usually need to make all the decisions and must carry the load myself. I’ve never been anyone’s girl, but right now, I really want to be his.
The soup hits my tongue, and I hum at the flavors. “This is the best soup I have ever had,” I murmur before I open my eyes and see him staring back at me. Heat swirls in his gaze, and his intense stare has my pussy pulsing in time with my heartbeat right here at the dinner table.
His eyes don’t move from mine as he fills the spoon again, bringing it to my lips.
“Good girl,” he drawls. “Nearly done.”
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask him, my tone much breathier than I intended.
“I am. Very much. I could watch you swallow all day. The way your throat moves. Your neck is so delicate…” he says, continuing to feed me while I flush at his words.
“I like you feeding me,” I whisper, and it feels like the tension has spiked one hundred degrees as his nostrils flare and his gaze fills with wanting.
“Be a good girl and finish this soup, and I might do it again sometime.”
We continue, sitting at the table in silence. I finish the soup, him watching me, being gentle, his movements purposeful and ensuring I eat all of it. Just as he asked me to.
“Thank you,” I say as he pushes the empty bowl to the side. Then he grabs my hand again, running his fingers up and down the inside of my wrist.
“What are you doing Thursday night?” Hudson asks, and I balk a little, not expecting that question. I sit, shocked for a moment, as it dawns on me that he’s asking me out.
“Ummm…” I think out loud, caught off guard, my body and mind clearly still on the soup experience, and as he sits smirking at me, I realize that was his intention all along. Catching me by surprise so I couldn’t make an excuse.Cooking, cleaning, helping Mom, working,they all flow through my head at a rapid pace.
“I’m busy,” I say with vigor, because I want to go out with him, but I just can’t say the words. They feel too foreign on my tongue, and after what I just experienced at my dining table, I’m not sure how we could keep our hands to ourselves for a one-on-one date. I’m clearly losing my mind, and I need to tame my feelings; otherwise, I will be complete putty in his hands.
“You are. With me,” he says, nodding, almost challenging me to disagree. I bite my bottom lip, really wanting to say yes before my eyes flick to the living room, thinking about my mother, and my body sinks again.
“I told you, I don’t date,” I say, pleased with my strength to reject him. Again. Even though everything in my body is pushing me to do the opposite.
“I will pick you up at seven.” He continues like he didn’t hear me.
“I can’t, I have to—”
“I will bring my mom over to sit with yours, so youdon’t have to worry about her,” he says, and my body hums.I took care of it. His words from earlier sneak back into my brain.
“But…” I start to say, although it is futile.
“I have already booked it.” Now I am intrigued.
“Booked it?” I ask tentatively, a smile coming to my lips, and he smirks. He knows that I’m all in. I think he knew all along.
“Beetlejuiceat the theater in town,” he says, his hand still holding mine, his fingers strumming up the inside of my wrist, almost like he is trying to calm me, scared that I’ll bolt.
“Beetlejuice?” I question, the conversation moving too quickly for me to really grasp.
“I’ll be here at seven.” He nods, then stands and looks down at me. The action makes me mimic him, my head nodding in agreement almost automatically, and his smile widens.Did I just agree to a date with Hudson Hamilton?
“Good girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmurs as his hand cups my jaw gently, clearly knowing that I struggle with putting myself first. I look up at him from where I remain sitting, wide-eyed, and his gaze doesn’t falter from mine. In this position, looking up at him, I want to do whatever he tells me to, just so I can hear him call me a good girl again. Makes me crave another kiss from him.
“I’m not sure yet. Ask me Thursday night,” I grumble, feeling like a brat, but with a smile on my face and my head spinning. His thumb runs over my jaw gently before he lets go.
“I look forward to it. Now no more using this hand for a day or two. Keep it dry.” He starts to pack up his medical gear.
“I need to drive,” I say to him, leaning back in my chair, because there’s no way I can remain at home doing nothing.