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)
My thumb presses harder against her clit. My fingers curl deeper inside her. Finding the rhythm that makes her gasp, makes her shake.
"Come for me," I say softly. Not an order. A benediction. "Let go. I've got you."
Her climax builds like a wave. I feel it in the tension of her thighs. The arch of her spine. The quickening pulse beneath my fingertips.
Then it breaks.
She cries out—a sound caught between sob and exultation. Her body convulses. Tightens. Releases.
I work her through it. Gentle now. Easing the pressure but not stopping entirely. Letting her ride the sensation to its natural conclusion.
Her hand grips my wrist, stilling my movements when it becomes too much. Not pushing me away. Just... holding me in place.
She looks at me, eyes half-lidded, pupils wide. Face flushed. Lips parted.
"See the difference?" I ask.
She nods. Once. Twice.
"No pain," she whispers.
"Not unless you want it." My fingers remain inside her, unmoving now but still connected. "That's the distinction Giovanni doesn't grasp. Pain should be a choice. A gift. Not a requirement."
Her body shifts. Adjusting. Accommodating my touch differently now that the urgency has passed.
"Do you want it?”
She bites her lip, looking me in the eyes. A nod of her head. Then the words I’ve been waiting for… “Yes. I want the pain.”
My other hand moves. Finds her breast through the thin nightgown. Cups it. Then locates her nipple—already hard, sensitive, probably still aching from the clamps Giovanni used earlier.
I pinch it. Hard.
Then twist.
The sound she makes splits the room—half gasp, half moan. Her back arches, pushing her breast further into my hand, even as her thighs clamp around my wrist. Not to stop me. To keep me there.
"This is the difference," I tell her, voice low and steady even as my cock throbs against my pants. "Pain that serves a purpose. That heightens pleasure instead of replacing it. That reminds you of your body instead of making you want to escape it."
I twist again, slightly harder this time. Her body jerks, inner walls clenching around my fingers. Her breathing accelerates. Shallow. Ragged. I curl my fingers inside her, pumping in and out, reaching for that spot that makes her gasp while simultaneously pinching her nipple again.
The combination sends a visible shudder through her entire body.
"Your body knows the difference," I tell her. "Even if you can't articulate it yet."
She moans, hips starting to move with more urgency against my hand. Her eyes fly open. Lock on mine.
I see the exact moment she understands. "Jino—"
My grip tightens on her nipple when she says my name, twisting just to the edge of true pain, then releasing. The pattern of tension and relief mirrors what my fingers are doing inside her—building, intensifying, receding, building again. Her breath hitches. She's close again—I can feel it in the tension of her body, see it in the flush spreading across her chest.
I twist her nipple again, harder, and press deep inside her simultaneously. The orgasm tears through her like a storm—violent and sudden and absolutely devastating in its intensity. Her whole body convulses. Thighs clamping around my hand. Head thrown back. A scream ripping from her throat that she barely manages to muffle by biting down on her own arm.
I don't stop.
Even as she comes, I keep moving. Fingers working her clit, thumb dipping inside her, hand on her breast maintaining that perfect balance of pain.
Making it last. Making it count.
I work her through it, easing the intensity but not stopping entirely, letting her ride the wave to its conclusion.
When she finally collapses back onto the mattress, I slowly withdraw my fingers. Her body makes a small, involuntary sound of protest at the loss of contact. But when I touch my slick fingers to her lips, tracing the outline, she opens her mouth and tastes herself.
I’m so hard right now.
Her hand shoots out. Grabs my wrist.
"More," she gasps.
"Emmaleen—"
"Please." She pulls herself up on shaking arms. Looks at me with eyes that are fever-bright, desperate, already sliding back into that headspace where pain and pleasure are the same language. "More. I need more. Show me everything. Show me everything Giovanni won't give me. Everything he's afraid to give me. All of it." Her grip tightens. "Right now. Please, Jino. Please."
21
I can hear my own breathing. Fast, shallow, and desperate. Like I've been running a marathon through my own psyche and just now realized I'm winning.
"More," I repeat, because apparently my vocabulary has shrunk to monosyllables and begging. "Everything Giovanni won't give me."
Jino's face does something complicated. Part concern, part desire, part what the actual fuck am I doing.
Join the club, buddy. We meet on Thursdays.
"Emmaleen." His voice carries that Dom-warning tone. The one that says I'm about to be reasonable and you're not going to like it. "You need to think about what you're asking."
"I have thought about it." The words tumble out, faster than I can organize them. "I've thought about nothing else. You and Giovanni—you're like… like a Venn diagram of fucked-up perfection."