Chloe

Sitting at a proper table, expected to maintain proper table manners after months of being fed from a doggy bowl on the floor, is a strange feeling. Even if I’m still being fed and my seat is Master’s lap. I inhale him, savoring the deep sage and oak that makes my mouth water far more than the expensive steak he’s cutting. His muscular arms, the veins that stand out on his inked flesh, are tight around me as he cuts. Everything Master does is addictive. My breath hitches in my throat as he leans forward, his hair tickling me, the hint of gray in it telling me my master is much older than he looks. I would have guessed, at most, that he was in his late thirties. I’ve never asked, wouldn’t care either way. My heart lurches as his hazel eyes suddenly cut to mine. “It's rude to stare, pet.”