“No. I was just wondering.” He applied himself to shoveling through the eggs and toast, but he could feel her gaze on him, waiting. Eventually he gave up on her losing interest in his answer and laid his fork aside. “I just need to get my head on straight.”
“About geese or me?”
He shook his head. “Not about geese. You’re not the issue either.” Letting her think he was having second thoughts about being with her wasn’t fair. “If we were closer to civilization . . . to a pharmacy . . .”
“You think I’d lie about getting tested and who I’ve been with?” she asked, her brows high and her eyes reflecting hurt.
Well shit. He’d made a mess of this conversation already.
“What? No! I just . . .”
“You just what?”
Of course it would come to this.
“Well, when you have a specific rule that you’ve held firmly to for twenty-eight years, it’s hard to break it. Even if you know it’s okay and you really want to.”
“So you fully intended to have sex with me but then chickened out and left me hanging?”
Even from where he sat all the way at the other end of the table her frown of displeasure held a warning. He wasn’t sure why, but pissing her off had always been entertaining—probably because she did the same to him on a regular basis.
“I also felt it was important to get our relationship off on the right foot.”
“Oh? I don’t really think of sexual frustration as a desirable trait in my D/s relationships. I’m not one of those people who get off on self-denial.”
“You’re not supposed to. It’s a good way to remind you who’s in charge. I enjoy your bratty side, but a girl who wants sex needs to behave.”
“That sounds like a Dominant making excuses for being chickenshit.”
“Just because we agreed not to use condoms doesn’t mean I owe you dick.”
She rose from the table and walked toward him, plate in hand, and he got the feeling that he’d be wearing her non-poisoned scrambled eggs in about thirty seconds if he didn’t talk fast.
“If you dump that on me, you’re not going to enjoy the consequences.” He didn’t have anything specific in mind, but he was sure he could come up with something suitably humiliating.
She eyed him speculatively, likely wondering how bad of a punishment he could dream up. He held out his hand for the plate and let his gaze go glacial.
She swallowed, her gaze flicking to his hand and then back to his face. Threatening a brat with punishment was almost an encouragement for them to misbehave, but he hoped she gave him enough credit for creativity to know he’d figure out how to make it truly unpleasant.
Under her breath, she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “fucker.” The plate finally drifted close enough for him to take, as though she could barely stand to hand it over. He took it casually, but there’d been at least a 50 percent chance he’d end up wearing her breakfast.
“Good girl.”
A roll of her pretty dark eyes let him know exactly how much the praise had meant to her. Exactly zilch.
Carefully, he placed the full plate directly in front of his own on the table, so that the edges touched.
As she tried to stroll away, he caught her arm. Although she tried to yank free, he held her easily.
When she stopped fighting, he let go and snapped his fingers, then gestured from her to the table. “Up.”
“What!”
“Kneel on the table facing me and your plate.”
She gave him a long look, but slowly did as he’d bidden her.
“Take your shirt off.”