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I fought against that instinct, trying not to sully the uncomplicated aura that surrounded us.
As Elliot ordered, I managed to eat the entire roll and accompanying coleslaw, its flavors fresh and sharp, the perfect complement to the heavy roll.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded. “More than good. That might’ve been the best meal I’ve had in my life. And Avery Shaw has cooked for me before.”
“You don’t have to lie to get in my pants,” he teased. “I’m planning on you getting in there already.”
The smile that stretched across my face was genuine, easy, the warmth between my legs the same.
I stood, intending to gather the plates to wash. I did so on instinct. My mother raised me to have good manners. And although I resisted a lot of traditional values, I didn’t think that using basic manners with someone who served you extraordinary food in their home was anything but polite.
One of the few ways I could be considered polite.
“Did I say you could stand?”
My body froze at the low tone, so different from the light tenor we’d been conversing in moments ago.
My skin electrified with desire that had already been dancing below the surface. Beyond the seemingly wholesome meal, an inescapable sexual tension coiled between us. The promise of a night of deviance so starkly juxtaposed against the unpretentious meal with no booze or tawdry accompaniments.
Mouth dry, I looked at him, wanting to put that satisfied, pleased smile back on his face.
Fuck, I wanted to serve him.
“I was going to wash these,” I gestured to the dishes. “Since you cooked.”
“Nice thought, baby, but I’m serving you tonight,” he motioned to the table. “Sit.”
I immediately did what he said, though I didn’t completely back down. “You know, in large areas of my life, people serve meall the time.” My remark came off uncouth, haughty and spoiled. I’d intended it that way. Large parts of me wanted to please him, but another part, maybe even an equally large part, wanted to show him my worst—maybe my real?—qualities so he could get rightly disgusted with me and go find someone else to order around.
I was testing him.
I was always testing him, to see how far I could pull back my mask and show him what was behind it before he inevitably figured out that I was bad for him.
“I know that, Calliope,” he didn’t so much as scowl, reaching over to grab my plate to stack it on top of his. “Youpaypeople to serve you throughout your life,” he corrected. “I’m doubting very much you let people do it because they want to.” His eyes narrowed on me. “And I want to. So sit. You’ll be taking care of me soon enough.”
I licked my lips at the promise, never so turned-on at the thought of taking care of another man. I’d never been excited to serve another man in any way, sexual or otherwise.
Again, he didn’t give me any instructions nor permission to do anything to distract myself. My brain had already rewired itself to comprehend that if he didn’t explicitly say I could do something, the default was to be as I was. Again, it was at odds with every cornerstone of my personality, every inch of my history, and didn’t make logical sense.
Yet it didn’t bother me.
Not for the night.
I’d always let myself have nice things, regardless of the price tag, yet this thing, letting go, was the first thing that brought me peace.
Elliot didn’t rush in the kitchen. And I couldn’t decide if his slow, meticulous cleaning and drying of every dish was an instrument to torture me or a hint of the kind of attention todetail he planned on attending to me with. Or if it was the simple act of ensuring that both of us had fully digested our meals in order to engage in sex that was free of any kind of uncomfortable bloating.
Not that I felt uncomfortable in any kind of way. Physically, at least. For someone who didn’t indulge in breads or high fat dressings, I half expected to have some embarrassing gastrointestinal reaction. But I felt comfortably satiated. Nourished, even. I’d always told myself that my eating habits were nourishing my body with everything it needed, when in reality, I was just depriving myself of things I didn’t think I deserved.
Elliot wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, his eyes landing on me with the hungry gaze of a man who hadn’t eaten in months. Years.
My body, despite its physical satiation, was suddenly starving, overcome with need for this man. The roughness of his palms along my skin. His lips, his weight on top of my body.
My hands gripped the side of the chair as he approached, battling against the overwhelming need to stand up, take charge, jump on him and tear his clothes off.
It’s what I would’ve done in the past. Though it was difficult, it was somehow more erotic to deny that impulse to control, knowing that Elliot would tell me what I needed to do.