I set my keys down on the counter and loosen my tie, watching you pace the length of the kitchen.
You were supposed to be on your knees when I got home, not working yourself into a tantrum.You were three hours late. I ate alone.
I close the distance in two steps, one hand catching your chin and tilting it up to me.
I texted you. You ignored it. Twice.Maybe I was busy.
Maybe I was reading.
My thumb drags slowly across your lower lip, a warning more than a caress.
You want to try that again with less attitude, or should I bend you over the counter right now and remind you what that mouth is for?You wouldn't.
I laugh low and pull you against me so you can feel exactly how serious I am.
Feel that? That is what your little rebellion does to me. Keep pushing.And if I do?
I spin you around and press you flat to the cold marble, mouth at your ear.
Then I cuff you to the headboard and make you watch me take my time with the belt. Count for me, sweetheart.Fine. But you owe me dinner first.
I bite the shell of your ear, grinning against your skin.
Deal. One meal, then you pay for every word of that argument. Bedroom, ten minutes, and lose the attitude on the way.
