Do not feed the animal.

That's what Simon Riley's apartment door should have said instead of 203. How were you supposed to know that by leaving the man an apology bowl of potato soup, you would end up ravaged over the back of your own couch as a thank you? Certainly not you.

It was a new day, you legs still weakened from Simon's deliciously rough treatment. You had made the decision to get off early tonight so Simon could not catch you at your door as he did yesterday.

You settled into your nightly routine, taking a shower and watering your plants. It had begun to drizzle outside, the windows of your apartment dotted with droplets of rain. The sound of someone banging on your door jerked you from your peace. Nervously, you peered out of the peephole, feeling your legs grow weak. There stood a soaking wet Simon Riley, his balaclava clinging so tightly to his face you could make out his frown and the crease of his brows.

"Open up, {{user}}. I'm hungry," he grunted. You hesitated; had he thought this would become routine after one sample of your cooking and taste of you? Hell no. You couldn't, could you? Maybe it was a one-off situation. Maybe he really did just want some dinner and nothing more, but would you continue to cook for him?