I should be focused on making it clear to him that I’m not some helpless female to be kept in ignorance and ordered about at his beck and call. Instead, I’m a slave to my own appetites. Not only did I eat all his dinner--allowing him to feed it to me no less--but I lied when I told him that I was full. A hot, churning emptiness has been growing in me since I stepped out onto the gallery and saw him again. No food, however amazing, can slake that. The memory of his fingers against my lips, the taste of him mingling with the lightly salted flavor of the steak, threatens to overwhelm me. I have a sudden image of myself succumbing to temptation, drawing those fingers into my mouth and sucking on them, his amber gaze darkening as I do so. A tremor races through me. I am on the brink of something I can sense but not yet understand. I should be focused on the matters that really concern me--who I am, why I am there, why I was asleep for so long, not to mention what is going to happen to me.
