Mia had come back to Jon like a stray dog.
She wasn't afraid, nor in the least bit suspicious: throughout their long afternoons together, he'd succeeded in infusing a sense of trust and security in her. Quite an achievement, it could be said. Jon thought about Mia often, perhaps too often. But it was always like that for him.
They had talked for hours stretched out on the chaise longue in the sitting room, as usual. They lay entwined, in a weave that would have alarmed any onlooker. But there had been no caresses, no kisses, and they hadn't loved each other. This obviously didn't imply that Mia's thoughts had been of the purest kind. Her own boldness surprised her: she was distracted by the curve of Jon's jawline, by the shadow of his collarbone under his skin, by the pearls of wine on his fingers as he filled his glass.
No refreshment had been offered to her.
She gradually realised that never before had she felt so complicated by a man's presence. To tell the truth, she'd never actually allowed herself to be. But she felt safe with Jon: she would have paid whatever the price for this perfect calm. She was deeply grateful to him. Sometimes, the weight of the debt clawed at her conscience. But he had never lifted so much as a finger against her. He had merely asked her some favours: tie up her hair in a soft ponytail in his presence, wear a certain low-cut back dress more often, apply lipstick in the mirror as he watched her... little pleasures.
Jon, on the other, had never once questioned her about what exactly she was running from out there, why she desired so ardently the presence of a man who would welcome her in his home.
It was as if he already knew the answer. Jon wasn't much older than she was, but his domineering stance seemed to imply a greater age difference between them. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Jon suddenly left the room without a word. Startled, Mia called gently after him. Her voice sounded gravelly and her throat was parched because of all the talking. But Jon was already back, carrying a saucer and a bottle of milk. This troubled her at first. Surely he wouldn't offer a drink to the cats (that sometimes skulked about the house) rather than to his guest of honour? But the sudden doubt couldn't rattle her faith in him. Jon balanced the plate on the chaise longue and slowly emptied half of the bottle's contents in it. He seemed to be quite aware of Mia's ravenous gaze fixed on him, counting every single drop of milk. Predictably, the cats swarmed from the crevices in the walls meowing persistently and rubbing their backs against Jon's legs.
"Are you thirsty, Mia?"
"Very much."
"I brought you some milk, honey."
Her eyes brightened with delight and gratitude. She reached for the saucer: as usual, her trust in Jon had been rewarded. Then she halted with her fingers outstretched, thrown off guard at the unexpected withdrawal of the drink from her grasp. Jon was holding the plate firmly just out of her reach, and was studying the quivering surface of the milk with a musing look.
"Mia, would you do me a favour? Something that would make me very, very happy?"
In a moment, Mia understood that it was no longer the longing for the warm and sweet refreshment to spur her on, but the eagerness to smooth Jon's forehead from whatever it was that was troubling him. She'd started giving in to such fervour much more often than usual, she noted.
"Anything you want."
"Would you drink this milk on the ground, kneeling on the floor? The saucer is wide and shallow, if you lap it up slowly you won't get stained. Would you do this for me?"
A thousand thoughts surged behind the girl's eyes: drink on the floor like an animal? What's wrong with a clean mug? And will you be watching me? Am I thirsty enough to humiliate myself like this? Submit myself to Jon? Well, I hope the floor's not too dirty... but what will the cats drink?
Jon read the consent in her face before she even had to utter it. He placed the bowl on the floor in front of his feet and smiled indecipherably. The girl fell to her knees on the cold floor, but before leaning forward towards the milk she cast one last glance to Jon's expression. Imperturbable, at ease, indulgent. Mia went on all fours and lowered her head.
Lapping the milk cost her more effort than she'd bargained for: she smeared her chin and the tip of her nose almost immediately. Halfway through her endeavour it simultaneously dawned on her just how parched her mouth had been and how very exposed her position was. Ass raised, elbows wide open, back arched downwards, shoulder blades tense and the continuous bobbing of her head. She sneaked a furtive look in Jon's direction: her gaze swept up only to his knees, then focused back on the saucer.
She finished drinking up the milk with what she would have later considered as decorum, given the circumstances. She succeeded in wiping away the droplets of milk from her lips before straightening up and noted with a streak of pride that she hadn't made embarrassing noises even when she had licked the bottom of her bowl. Crouched on the balls of her feet, refreshed by the drink and with Jon's tender stroke on her cheek, Mia allowed herself a victorious grin.
The abrupt, piercing awareness that Jon had not finished with her knotted her stomach into a ball of yarn.
"Sweetie, you were so thirsty! Surely you want some more, don't you?"
Before Mia could object to the excessive kindness, the saucer had been filled yet again with the remaining milk. Jon planted it purposively before her bended knees, clipping the ceramic on the floor with more stubbornness than strictly necessary. Mia had captured every scrap of Jon's attention. The man was sitting on the edge of the chaise longue, his hands clenched around the armrest. He was literally stretching out to her.
Mia slowly lowered her face to the platter. She wasn't at ease anymore. She glanced vainly at Jon, but from this angle she could no longer see him. All she could do was dip her tongue in the cursed drink. This time it was easier, she'd got the hang of it. She noted with sudden glee that there was much less milk than the previous helping. It would all be over sooner than she'd dreaded: her tongue was already brushing against the bottom of the saucer. Her haste betrayed her: a loud gurgle escaped her lips, and in mortified embarrassment her head snapped up.
