Page 49 of The Toy Collector

Leaning closer to my toy, I let my breath fill her ear. “It’s okay. It’s just the food.”

I cross the room, calm and unhurried, and let Maria in. Her steely gaze sweeps the office with its usual efficiency, noting every detail. She says nothing, but I see the slight quirk of her brow as her eyes land on my toy.

“On the table,” I instruct, gesturing with a slow nod. “Then you’re free to go.”

I watch as Piper flinches at the sound of another woman in the room, and the thrill it sends through me is exquisite. Maria moves quickly, setting out the food in neat, perfect rows.

Duck breast, Szechuan eggplant, jasmine rice. She finishes with the bottle of Pinot Noir that I know from experience is beyond excellent, and two crystal glasses. When she’s done, she slips out as quietly as she came.

Piper’s nostrils flare slightly as she audibly sniffs the air. “Something smells delicious,” she comments.

Chuckling, I close the distance between us and lift her from the chair and onto the glass table. Her thighs tremble when they hit the cool glass.

I move my chair between her spread legs, pushing her skirt up. Her hand darts out, grasping my shoulder as she steadies herself, obediently widening her legs more, and I can’t stop the groan that escapes me when I see the navy colored lace hiding what’s mine.

Reaching for the wine, I pour her a glass, bringing it to her lips with one hand wrapped firmly around the base. “Thirsty, Toy?” I coax, lifting the glass to her lips.

Nodding, she opens her mouth, and the flush of wine against her tongue is instant, red like the stain she leaves in my veins. She swallows audibly, eagerly.

“Easy,” I say, pulling the glass back, taking a slow sip myself before letting her have more. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your appetite.”

She scrunches up her nose, all soft edges and irritation. “Is that duck I smell?” she asks, turning her face toward the waiting food.

“It is,” I confirm while I grab the chopsticks and expertly pick up a piece of glazed duck, dripping with chili-plum sauce that I bring to her mouth.

“Oh, my God! That’s so good,” she half-moans while chewing. “This is my—”

“Favorite,” I finish for her with a chuckle. “I know.”

Tilting her head to the side, I can feel her gaze boring into me from beneath my tie wrapped around her eyes. “I don’t think you do,” she taunts. “If you knew my favorites, you’d know I never have duck on its own. It’s always with a side of Szechuan eggplant, ground pork, and steamed jasmine rice.”

I chuckle as she lists off what I know to be her custom order from her local Chinese place. “Is that so?” I inquire while I prepare the next bite for her. This time I feed her rice, eggplant, and a little bit of pork.

While chewing, she holds her hand up, and I wait until she’s done. “What the hell?” she mutters, incredulous. “Wait, can I have some more wine?”

I allow her a few more sips.

“Damn,” she breathes. “I didn’t notice before, but this is… it’s Meiomi Pinot Noir, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

Feeding her is becoming an intimate and decadent ritual—exactly how I want it to be. I know she isn’t as relaxed as she pretends to be. I’m sure she’s biting her tongue, but I can feel the questions coiling behind her lips like steam beneath glass.

She wants to know how I knew. But instead of asking, she opens her mouth for the next bite. I hold the chopsticks steady, watching the way her lips part. The way her tongue flicks against the rice as if tasting me instead of jasmine.

I feed her another piece of duck, dragging it just slightly against her lower lip before placing it between her teeth. She shivers. I catch a stray drop of glaze from her mouth with my thumb and smear it along the curve of her cheek before licking it off, loving the way goosebumps erupt across her skin.

“You want answers, Toy?” I tease. When all she does is nod, I click my tongue in disappointment. “Then earn them by asking the questions.”

Clearing her throat, she rolls her shoulders back and raises her chin slightly. “How did you know this is my favorite food? And my favorite wine?” she questions.

“You think I haven’t watched you long enough to know how you eat? What you crave?” I croon, letting my hand trail down her thigh.

Her breath catches, sharp and unsteady. “Tell me something,” she demands, shifting on the table. “Do you like puzzles?”

My lips curl up in a knowing smile she can’t see. “Puzzles?” I ask, amused. “Do you mean that symbolic, like making campaign slogans and agendas, fit in politics? Or are you being literal and talking about spending a rainy Sunday afternoon completing jigsaw puzzles?”

“But it can’t be,” she mutters quietly to herself as she ponders my question. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

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