Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“What sauce do you like on your pasta?”
My eyes widened. “Anything, Sir. Dare.” Another blush.
“What’s your favorite?”
“Car- carbonara or alfredo.” I’d already let it slip so might as well let it all hang out.
He smiled at me again. My belly fluttered at that smile. He was very attractive.
“Sounds good.” He picked up the phone and said, “Dario Ferrano. Need a table for two in my room. No, two chairs. Yes, two. Two orders of pasta carbonara. An extra-large order of garlic bread with cheese. Mozzarella. A bottle of dry red. And a big bowl of Cesar salad. Extra bacon. Bacon, not that bacon bit shit.” He winked at me. “Four bottles of water and two bottles of orange Gatorade.”
I fought the urge to smile. I fought the urge to relax. I fought the urge to cry out in elation as I hadn’t eaten a meal like that in two years. But then a chill shot up my spine because maybe he was planning to sit and eat it in front of me and degrade me. Sadly, that game was not new to me.
She was reserved. She was guarded. She was doing her very best to behave like an absolute angel. She was so careful about every word she said and she’d looked embarrassed a few times, like she’d slipped up, but had never said anything that I could construe as a slip-up other than calling me Sir after I’d asked her not to.
She looked healthy but I could see in her eyes that she was far from healthy emotionally speaking. I wanted to tell her she was close to freedom, that we just had to play things out for 2 days here and that I’d get her out of here, but I knew I couldn’t tell her. I had to remain aloof and at the same time give anyone who might be watching us on camera the impression that I was just like them.
In my brief meeting earlier with three men who had been kissing my ass, knowing I was Tom Ferrano’s son, I did not let them think I was anything but Tom’s son in terms of my goals and objectives. They said very little about her, stating they wanted to let me meet and assess her and then we’d have another conversation. They assured me that she had been carefully trained and was an exceptional slave with no punishable infractions in more than 18 months. She had not been touched sexually since her last clear STD test when she was put on ice to wait for me.
Stan Smith had suggested to me that it’d be best not to ask questions about her origin and her past. I wouldn’t care about that shit if I was just a typical client of theirs. I’d find that out later when I helped her get back to some semblance of a normal life. I remarked to the scumbags that I was looking forward to meeting my bride-to-be but that I needed to get home quickly as we were still sorting my father’s affairs out after his untimely death. I texted my brother to tell him I’d arrived safely and texted Stan the same and said I’d call him when I got back home and give him further instructions.
When the food came and they brought a table with two chairs I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Usually, once a patron sat, I would wait for him to snap his fingers and I’d move to his feet. But I wasn’t generally waiting seated on a bed, I was typically already on the floor on my knees.
When he sat, he looked at me. “You good to eat?”
“May I use the facilities first please, Master?”
He looked annoyed but waved his hand toward the bathroom. I stiffly moved to the bathroom and once behind closed doors I let out a big breath.
When I came back from washing my hands and taking a moment to compose myself, he was sitting, looking broody. I hurried to his side and got to the floor. I didn’t want to presume I was to sit at the table with him even if there were two chairs. It was better to be corrected for not taking kindness than to be punished for taking liberties.
I was on the floor on my knees beside his leg.
“Sit at the table.” His body was locked tight. He was angry.
I got up and sat at the table and my eyes landed on the mountain of food between us.
“Eat,” he said and poured me a glass of wine.
I lifted a fork and twirled a small amount of pasta on the fork, maybe just three or four strands of linguine. Dare heaped creamy bacon and parmesan-coated romaine lettuce with buttery-looking croutons onto my plate beside the pasta and held the platter of garlic bread in my direction with a jerk of his chin.