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)
I lean in, watching Jino as he works. After several minutes of tapping her with the crop—even twice using the leather tab at the end to caress her nipple—he stands back, admiring his work. My jaw tightens involuntarily at the sight. Jino's always been thorough in his training methods, but the way his eyes linger on her body is... professionally unnecessary.
"You're terrible at this,” he tells Emmaleen. “Someone's parents failed to teach them the particulars of good posture."
I wait for Emmaleen's outburst. Insulting one's dead parents is a tried-and-true provocation—one that should ignite that sharp tongue of hers instantly.
But she doesn't even flinch. If anything, she holds herself higher.
What’s she doing?
I understand now.
And suddenly, so do I. A cold smile plays at the corner of my mouth. Does she think she can win this game by sheer will? By perfect compliance? She's mistaken. She has no idea how seriously Jino takes his role as Dom. She will never meet his standards—nor mine.
It's not even a possibility.
And even if it were, I would simply raise my expectations.
The game isn't designed to be won. That's the point she's missing.
I press the summons again, harder this time, though that has no effect whatsoever. I can't quite hear it through the security footage—it's nothing more than a subtle vibration. So tiny a sound, you’d need to be listening for it.
But again, Jino ignores me. Instead, he directs Emmaleen to raise her chin with the encouragement of the crop. He levels it out so she’s looking neither up nor down. Jino taps her—on the shoulder, on the back of the neck, on the cheek, on the breast.
Her nipples are peaked tight. And for a moment, I catch Jino staring at them.
He looks away quickly, like he knows I caught it.
Something hot and dark coils in my chest. Not jealousy—I don't do jealousy. It's... territorial. Emmaleen is my project. My problem to solve. The fact that even Jino seems affected by her is another complication I don't need.
"Hold there,” he commands. “I'll be watching you. Any failure on your part will earn demerits. I think you’re under the assumption that Giovanni will play Dom with you tonight—perhaps some erotic spanking? A blindfold? Some cuffs while he teases you. Let me be very clear—that's not how it works. You will be punished."
With that, he turns toward the door that leads up here and disappears.
I listen to his approaching footsteps climbing the back stairs as I watch Emmaleen, waiting for her snarky tirade or rebellious lapse in position.
But she doesn't move. Not a muscle. Not a twitch. Her stillness is almost… perfect. Like she's embracing the discipline rather than fighting it.
Jino bursts in. Pulling up the ski mask to reveal his sweaty hair. "What the fuck do you want?"
"I want to comment, of course." I lean back in my chair, gesturing to the monitor where Emmaleen remains perfectly still. "What is she doing?"
"What does it look like she's doing?" Jino is beyond annoyed. "She’s fucking complying, that's what she's doing."
"That's my point. Emmaleen Rourke doesn't comply. She snarks. She snipes. She walks through life like it's The Emmaleen Show, a constant internal monologue doing a quirky Wonder Years voiceover."
Jino blinks at me. "What?"
What the fuck is wrong with me? Wonder Years voiceover? I recalibrate. "She's playing you. And by you, I mean me."
"Playing me?" Jino yanks the ski mask completely off and throws it on my desk. "Look at Little Miss Perfect down there. She's not playing anything except right into your control-freak fantasy."
"Control-freak fantasy? That’s rich coming from the man who invests in sex clubs the way most people invest in the stock market. At least I don't dominate women for the structure. You wish you had my imagination for control-freak fantasies."
"Funny." Jino glances at the screen. "You know what's really funny? How you suddenly developed standards. This one's got a brain and a backbone, unlike the parade of Instagram models you usually throw away after a weekend."
"At least I don't need to pay for mine by the hour." I tap my pen against the desk. "How is Candy, by the way? Still 'working her way through college'? She must be approaching retirement age by now."
"Her name is Cassie, and she owns the club now. And unlike you, I'm not afraid of women who can actually match me." He nods toward the screen. "Speaking of which—your little rebel down there is making you nervous. That's new."
"I'm not nervous. I'm suspicious."
"Of what? That she might actually be good at this? That she might last longer than the three days you've given every woman who's ever gotten close?"
"Two weeks." I correct him automatically. "And she's not getting close. She's getting gone."
"Right." Jino leans over the desk, pointing at Emmaleen's face on the monitor. "That's why you planned this whole game? To get rid of her?” Jino laughs. “Giovanni, when a man like you wants to get rid of someone, they have their goons throw them in a trunk and dump their body in the river. This is not getting rid of her. This is you challenging her to meet your unreasonable standards. And look at her?” He points to the monitor again. “She’s doing it. She’s fucking perfect.”