Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
"Mine," he growls against my neck, his teeth grazing my skin. "Say it."
"Yours, my King," I gasp, the words barely audible as pleasure builds inside me. "Always yours."
The tension coils tighter between us with each passing second, each deliberate thrust building on the last like a symphony approaching its crescendo. I can feel the shift in Giovanni's movements, the way his careful control begins to fray at the edges. His fingers dig deeper into the flesh of my hips, hard enough that I know I'll find the marks tomorrow—five perfect bruises on each side, a map of this moment branded into my skin.
His breathing changes, becoming harsher, more ragged. The precision that usually defines every aspect of Giovanni Bavga starts to crack, revealing something raw and almost desperate underneath. His rhythm stutters, losing that measured cadence as instinct overtakes strategy.
"Inside you," he warns, and his voice has gone rough, strained with the effort of holding back even these few seconds longer. Every word is forced out between harsh breaths. "I'm going to come inside you."
It's not a question. It's not even really a warning—it's a declaration of ownership, another way of marking me as his. His grip on my hips tightens impossibly further, holding me in place, making sure I feel every inch of him as he drives deeper.
The words push me over the edge, and I shatter around him, my inner muscles clenching as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. Giovanni follows immediately, his release hot and pulsing deep inside me as he groans against my throat.
I collapse against his chest, boneless and spent. His arms come around me, holding me close as our breathing slows. His hand strokes up and down my spine with surprising tenderness.
"You continue to surprise me," he murmurs against my hair. "The way you surrender. The way you fight. Everything about you."
I make a small sound of contentment, too exhausted for words. His hand moves to cradle the back of my head, fingers playing with my hair.
"My monster has been rattling the cage lately," he says quietly, the non sequitur making me tense slightly in his arms, my post-orgasmic haze evaporating as his words register.
His thumb traces lazy circles on my bare shoulder, the gentleness at odds with what he's saying. "It needs to be fed. Needs to be unleashed." His other hand slides down my spine, possessive and claiming, as if anchoring me to him while he confesses this darkness.
"I've kept it contained for too long, little one. Civilized. Controlled." The word comes out with distaste, like it's foreign on his tongue. "But you..." His fingers tighten fractionally, just enough that I feel the threat of his strength beneath the caress. "You make me want to let it loose. To show you exactly what kind of man you've bound yourself to."
I press myself closer to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek. The words should terrify me—some rational part of my brain knows that, screams it even—but they don't. Instead, there's a perverse thrill unfurling in my belly, a dark flower of anticipation blooming where fear should take root.
Whatever darkness Giovanni keeps caged inside him, whatever monster prowls behind those vivid green eyes, I've already met it. Multiple times in the schoolroom. I've felt its claws, tasted its hunger, endured its scrutiny. And each time, I've survived. More than survived—I've discovered something twisted and true about myself in the process.
It's not scary anymore. Not really.
And Jino is always there. Always watching from whatever shadowy corner he's claimed as his vantage point in the dungeon. His ice-blue eyes tracking every movement, every interaction, ready to intervene if Giovanni crosses some invisible line only he can see. The silent guardian of my safety, even as he participates in my submission.
That knowledge steadies me. Grounds me. Makes the anticipation less terrifying and more...intoxicating.
"Rest up for the coming week, little one," he continues, his voice a caress against my skin. "You're going to need your strength."
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, seeing the hunger there, the barely leashed violence. "Yes, my King," I whisper.
Giovanni reaches beside the throne for the tray I hadn't noticed until now. On it sits small pieces of perfectly cooked meat—steak, cut into bite-sized morsels.
He selects a piece with deliberate care, his movements unhurried, almost ceremonial. The morsel hovers between us for a heartbeat before he brings it to my lips, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. I part my lips obediently, keeping my gaze lowered as I've been taught, waiting for him to grant me this small sustenance.
The meat touches my tongue first—warm, seasoned with just a hint of salt and pepper—and then his fingers follow. They press past my lips, deeper than necessary, resting against my tongue as if testing my stillness, my control. The intimacy of it floods through me, the way his skin tastes faintly of soap and smoke, the way he watches my reaction with that predatory focus.