“Little Brat. You have three seconds to crawl to me. I won’t tell you again.” “And if I don't?” I ask, getting to my feet on the other side of the table and placing my palms against the cold wood. My palms are slick with sweat, and my heart pounds a crazy beat inside my chest when his eyes narrow at my reaction. “Then you won't sit right for a week.” He stares with no emotion, drumming his long fingers against the tabletop. “Come here,” he rasps, desperation leaking into his tone. “I want my fucking dessert.”
