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)
But tonight belongs to Giovanni.
And I just handed him the keys to every lock I have left.
Because thirty-seven demerits. Even I’m impressed. And Jino won't touch me again until they're cleared.
Which means Giovanni gets to decide when—if—I feel Jino's hands on me again. When I get that careful, methodical instruction that makes my brain go quiet in ways I didn't know it could.
The realization should piss me off.
It does piss me off.
But it also does... other things. Things I'm not ready to examine under the fluorescent lights of rational thought.
Because here's the truth I'm still trying to swallow—I like Jino.
Not the way I feel about Giovanni—that's its own category of psychological disaster that probably requires a team of therapists and possibly an exorcist.
But I like him.
Like how he explains things while he's breaking me down. How he touched me in that bathtub with the kind of precision that suggested he knew exactly which nerve endings to activate and in what order. How he made me come on his fingers like it was a class assignment and I was the eager student desperate to pass.
It's different.
Jino is structure. Rules. A syllabus for submission that I can actually follow because he bothered to write it down and explain the grading system.
Giovanni is... not that.
Giovanni is the pop quiz written in a language I haven't learned yet, where the questions change every time I think I've figured out the pattern.
And I hate how much I respond to that too.
Hate how my body lights up when he looks at me like he's considering all the ways he could ruin me. How something in my chest goes tight when he gets that particular expression—the one that suggests he's three seconds from either fucking me or throwing me out a window and hasn't decided which yet.
Reckless.
That's the word for Giovanni.
Where Jino calculates, Giovanni combusts.
And apparently my nervous system finds both approaches equally compelling, which really says something deeply concerning about my psychological architecture.
Giovanni's hand moves. Just a small gesture—fingers crooked in a silent command. I know what he wants before he speaks. "Come here, little one."
His voice is different now. Quieter. That barely controlled burn beneath the surface that suggests he's running his own calculations about what comes next.
I take a step—
"No." Sharp. Immediate. "Crawl."
Of course. Because why walk when you can thoroughly humiliate yourself across concrete floors while holding an armful of sex toys?
I lower myself back down, implements clutched against my chest like the world's most fucked-up security blanket. The floor is cold against my knees and palm. I move forward like a wobbly three-legged stool, desperately clutching the punishment tools to my chest. When I reach him, I settle back into position between his spread legs, my head tilted up to meet his gaze.
His hand comes to rest on my head.
Just... there. Palm warm against my scalp, fingers threading through my hair with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.
"Good girl."
Two words.
That's all it takes for heat to flood through me, for my breath to catch like he's just solved some equation I didn't know I was waiting for someone to complete.
Giovanni's fingers tighten slightly, angling my face up further.
"Let's talk about your choices," he murmurs, and there's something almost conversational in his tone. Like we're discussing the weather instead of the various implements I've selected for my own torture. "The candles first. Do you know what I'm going to do with those?"
I swallow hard. "Hot wax. Across my... my nipples."
"Smart girl." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I'm going to make you count each drop. And if you lose count, we start over."
Fuck. I hate that I love that. Hate that I might lose count just to keep it going.
"The clamps." His other hand reaches down, plucking them from my pile with clinical efficiency. "Adjustable. Thoughtful of you. I'll tighten them until you beg—but not for release. For more."
My breathing is already uneven, and he hasn't even touched me yet.
Giovanni takes the collar from my hand, then holds it up, examining the O-ring like it's some kind of artifact requiring authentication.
"This," he says softly, "goes around your throat. And then I'm going to attach a chain from here"—he taps the O-ring—"to the nipple clamps. The tension will be perfect. Any movement of your head, any tilt of your neck..." He demonstrates with his hand, a gentle tug that makes his point. "...and you'll feel it exactly where I want you to."
Jesus Christ. A flood of warmth pools between my legs.
"The restraints." His gaze drops to the leather cuffs, and something flickers across his face. Almost... tender? "Soft. Satin-lined. You didn't choose the ones that bite. Interesting."
"I'm not trying to injure myself," I manage.
"No." His hand tightens in my hair again. "You're trying to survive me."
It's not a question.
Giovanni leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. Close enough that I can see the faint scar on his eyebrow, the exact shade of green in his eyes that seems to shift depending on his mood.