Chapter 54: Hot Dinner

Something just broke in me, and it’s my confidence!

Did Bael really just ignore me? Did he really just walk right past me like I’m not lying here in his shirt with everything on display, like I didn’t spend twenty minutes arranging myself to look as enticing as possible? Did he actually just go take a shower?

I stare at the bathroom door, the ice cream in the container beside me melting forgotten, heat creeping up my neck in waves that have nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with burning embarrassment..

What the hell?

Did I not make my intentions clear enough? Does he actually think I’m just eating ice cream? Or worse... does he see exactly what I’m doing and just doesn’t care?

No.

Absolutely not.

I didn’t go through all this effort just to be ignored, didn’t plan this whole seduction strategy, didn’t steal his shirt and wear it with nothing underneath, didn’t pose myself like some kind of offering just for him to walk past like I’m a piece of furniture. If he comes out of that bathroom and still doesn’t get it, I’m going to be more direct, more obvious, so obvious there’s no possible way he can misunderstand what I’m offering.

I shift on the bed, fingers fumbling with the last remaining button on the shirt until it comes undone, fabric gaping open so wide now that it’s barely covering anything at all. Then I move into the position I’d heard about in my past life, something I’d seen mentioned on internet forums and in whispered late-night conversations between friends who swore it worked one hundred percent on men without fail.

The W-sit.

I kneel with my knees spread wide, sitting back on my heels in a way that’s distinctly omega, distinctly flexible in that way alphas can’t manage, distinctly designed to trigger every territorial instinct hardwired into their DNA. The position makes the shirt ride up even higher, exposes more skin, and I arrange the fabric carefully to make sure it’s slipped off both shoulders now, hanging by sheer determination and very little else.

Then I wait, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, hands resting on my thighs because I don’t know what else to do with them.

The bathroom door opens.

Bael steps out.

And every coherent thought I have evaporates.

He’s wearing a towel, just a towel wrapped low around his waist, and absolutely nothing else. Water still clings to his skin, catching the light as it traces down the defined lines of his chest, his abs, the hard planes of his shoulders. He’s using another towel to dry his hair, arms raised in a way that makes every muscle in his biceps stand out in sharp relief, and the towel around his waist is sitting so dangerously low that I can see the V-line of his hips disappearing beneath the fabric.

...Who’s seducing who here?

I stare at him and he stares back, his eyes tracking slowly over my body, taking their time, absorbing the position I’m in, the shirt that’s barely clinging to my frame, exactly how much skin is on display. The silence stretches between us, heavy and charged with something I can feel building in the air.

Then his eyes meet mine and the intensity in them makes heat flood through my entire body.

I clear my throat, the sound coming out rougher than I intended, trying desperately to find my voice through the fog in my brain.

"Have you had dinner yet?"

The words escape softer than I meant them to, breathless in a way that’s embarrassing but I can’t control.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just continues looking at me with that unwavering focus that makes my skin prickle with awareness, makes me hyperconscious of every inch of exposed flesh.

I force myself to continue before I lose my nerve completely.

"If you haven’t..." My hand moves without conscious permission, fingers trailing along my collarbone, down toward my chest where the shirt has fallen away. "There’s dinner right here."

The words leave my mouth and I immediately want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

That’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever said in my entire life, both lives combined, all the cumulative embarrassment of two decades of existence condensed into one embarrassing sentence. My face is burning so hot I’m surprised I haven’t spontaneously combusted, heat flooding from my neck to the tips of my ears, and I can’t believe I actually just said that out loud, can’t believe those words came from my mouth like I’m the protagonist of some trashy romance novel.

Bael moves.

So fast I don’t process it until he’s already in front of me, appearing in my space like he teleported, one hand coming up to wrap firmly around my neck, not painful but possessive, fingers spanning my throat as he tilts my head back to force me to look up at him.

"You’re right," he says, voice dropped to something low and rough that sends shivers down my spine. "I should eat dinner."

Then his other hand is on my jaw, thumb pressing against my lower lip with deliberate pressure, prying my mouth open. His thumb slides inside and I taste salt on my tongue, feel the roughness of his skin, the heat of it.

Then he removes it and I watch the towel around his waist part where it’s tucked.

His dick pushes through the gap, already hard, flushed dark and thick and suddenly right in front of my face. Before I can process what’s happening, before my brain can catch up to the reality of the situation, his hand tightens on my jaw, holding it open, fingers digging in just enough to keep me in place, and he thrusts forward.

His cock slams into my mouth, driving straight back to hit my throat immediately.

My eyes water on reflex, tears springing up so fast they spill over instantly. I try to cough but I can’t, my throat spasming violently around the intrusion, more tears streaming down my face as I struggle to breathe around the thickness filling my mouth completely, choking off my air. My hands fly up without thought, grabbing onto his thighs for balance, for anchor, for anything to ground myself.

He thrusts a few more times, shallow movements that make me gag uncontrollably, make saliva pool in my mouth and drip down my chin, make my entire body shake with the effort of not rejecting the invasion.

Then he pulls out.

I cough immediately, harsh and desperate, gasping for air that burns going down my abused throat, tears streaming freely down my face now, my throat aching with a rawness that pulses with every swallow.

"What is it?" Bael asks, his hand still wrapped around my neck, thumb stroking along my jaw with deceptive gentleness. "Is this meal too much for you?"

I’m still coughing, trying to catch my breath between the spasms, swallowing repeatedly to try to ease the burning ache settling deep in my throat.

"I thought we could eat dinner together," he continues, and I can hear the amusement threading through his voice, dark and satisfied.

Then he’s pulling me up by my jaw, tilting my head back at an angle that exposes my throat, and his mouth crashes onto mine. The kiss is rough and demanding, his tongue pushing past my lips to taste me, to claim every inch of my mouth like he owns it. I kiss back without thinking, without permission from my brain, hands fisting in his hair on pure instinct, my body responding despite everything, despite the fact that my throat is still burning, despite the tears still wet and cooling on my cheeks, despite the fact that I can feel my own dick hardening and straining against nothing because I’m not wearing anything underneath this shirt.

What the hell is wrong with me? Getting hard from having his dick shoved down my throat until I couldn’t breathe?

Bael breaks the kiss, his mouth moving immediately to my neck, sucking hard enough that I know without looking he’s leaving marks, definitely leaving visible evidence. Then lower, trailing down to my chest where the shirt has fallen away completely, exposing everything. His mouth closes over one nipple, tongue flicking against the sensitive peak before his teeth bite down, not gentle at all, hard enough to make me gasp and arch into it.

He sucks and licks and bites, switching between both until they’re oversensitive and peaked hard, until I’m breathing hard and gripping his shoulders just to stay upright, until my brain is fuzzy with sensation.

Then he pulls away completely, stands up and walks over to the mini fridge in the corner like we’re not in the middle of something.

I watch him, dazed and confused and still trying to catch my breath, my brain struggling to understand what he’s doing, where he’s going, why he stopped.

He pulls out one of the ice cream containers from the fridge, vanilla, the same one I’d been eating earlier. Then he comes back to the bed, sits down beside me with casual ease, and I turn to look at him, still kneeling in that W-position, still trying to piece together what’s happening through the fog in my head.

He opens the container, scoops out a generous spoonful of ice cream with his fingers.

Then he spreads it directly over the head of his dick.

He flinches slightly, a barely visible tightening around his eyes as the cold makes contact with sensitive skin, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull back, just smooths the ice cream over himself with deliberate movements.

I stare, unable to look away, watching the vanilla start melting almost immediately against his heat, beginning to drip down the length of him in thin white trails that catch the light.

His hand comes back to my neck, fingers wrapping around it possessively, pulling me closer with steady pressure until my face is right in front of his cock, close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off the melting ice cream.

"Since you like ice cream so much," he says, voice low and dark with promise, "why don’t you have some?"