Her mouth opens and closes, looking like she wishes to protest. I tilt my head, pulling my brows together into a mockery of confusion. “Did you think being my submissive would be all trinkets and sexual pleasure?” “But I’m holding a bottle—” “I’ll transport it downstairs,” I say with a smirk. Her face falls. “But what about dinner?” “Are you hungry?” I ask. She flushes. “No.” “No, what?” I fold my arms across my chest. “No, sir.” “Then crawl.”
