Chapter 17 Giovanni #2
Permission to do anything I want with her—to remake her into whatever image satisfies the hollow space inside me that’s been growing since I was eight years old and learned that control is the only currency that matters in this world.
She’s handed me the keys to her cage and stepped inside willingly, her pale green eyes watching me with that strange mixture of fear and determination that makes my blood run hot in my veins.
It’s a surrender more complete than anything I could have forced from her, and somehow more unsettling because of it.
I crash my mouth against hers, pinning her harder against the door until I feel the solid wood at her back, her body yielding between it and mine. No more words. No more negotiation. No more of this maddening dance where she keeps surprising me with moves I never anticipated.
My fingers dig into her hip, anchoring her in place as if she might suddenly change her mind and slip away like smoke through my fingers.
When she responds—when she actually kisses me back—something short-circuits in my brain. My hand shoves under her shirt, finding her breast, soft and perfect in my palm. Her nipple hardens against my touch.
Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. Not just accepting. Participating.
This isn’t in the script. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
I’m done with Emmaleen’s surprises. Every time I think I have her pinned down, categorized, she shifts. Defies expectation. It’s fucking exhausting.
“You want to be mine?” I growl against her mouth. “Then you’re going to take everything I give you.”
She makes a small sound—half whimper, half moan—that vibrates against my lips. It isn’t fear. It’s anticipation.
“I’m going to slide my fingers inside you.” My voice drops lower, rougher. “I’m going to feel how wet you are for me. And you’re going to be soaked, aren’t you? You’re going to be dripping down my hand while I work you open.”
She bites her lip, her eyes going wide. A deep flush spreads across her cheeks, down her neck, disappearing beneath the white T-shirt. Her breath catches, a little hiccup of air.
My hand slides down her stomach, past the elastic of her underwear. I push the fabric aside, finding her already slick and hot against my fingers. When I push inside, her head falls back against the door with a soft thud, a moan escaping her parted lips.
Fuck.
She’s wet. Ready. Like she’s been waiting for this. For me.
The thought sends a jolt of pure hunger through me. I curl my fingers inside her, watching her face as pleasure washes over it. Her hips rock against my hand, chasing the sensation.
My other hand moves to her hair, stroking it back from her face. A gesture too tender for what this is supposed to be. But I can’t stop myself.
I lean in, press my lips against her cheek. Her skin is feverish beneath my mouth.
“I’m gonna fuck you now,” I whisper against her ear.
I withdraw my fingers, position myself, and push my cock inside her easily. The sensation nearly blinds me—tight, wet heat enveloping me completely.
“Fuck,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “You feel so good.”
She moans, her legs wrapping around my waist as I hold her against the door. Her muscles clench around me, pulling me deeper, making it nearly impossible to maintain control.
I’ve had women before. Many women. But never like this—never with this desperate, clawing need that threatens to tear me apart from the inside.
Her fingernails scrape against my back. Not the polished talons of the women who surround me like vultures, but short, ragged edges that catch my skin and split it open. The sting makes me hiss, my cock hardening impossibly further inside her.
“Fuck,” I growl, the pain unlocking something primal.
I’ve been taking my time, drawing this out, cataloging every reaction, every shiver. Control. But her nails dig deeper, and my restraint shatters.
I thrust harder, deeper, my fingers bruising her hips as I hold her against the door. The wood creaks with each impact. She clings to me, her legs locked around my waist, pulling me in like she’s drowning and I’m her last breath of air.
Her moans shift from soft, surprised sounds to something desperate and unfiltered. There’s nothing calculated in the way she moves against me, nothing performative in the way she gasps my name. Just raw, unvarnished need.
“Yes. Yes,” I hiss against her throat. “That’s it. Take it all. Let my cock fill you up.”
Her body tightens around me, muscles clenching, pulling me deeper. I feel her orgasm building, feel the exact moment it crashes through her. Her head falls back, eyes unfocused, mouth open in a silent scream.
The sight of her coming undone triggers my own release. It hits without warning, an explosion that whites out my vision. My entire body locks up, pleasure searing through every nerve ending as I empty myself inside her.
For a moment, I can’t think. Can’t process. My head swims with the intensity of it, thoughts scattered like ashes in the wind.
This is different. She is different. No woman has ever made me lose control like this, made me forget myself so completely.
We collapse against each other, her forehead dropping to my shoulder. Our breathing comes harsh and ragged, skin slick with sweat. I can’t hold my head up, can barely keep us both upright against the door.
Her fingers trail lightly over the scratches she’s left on my back. Touching, probing. Not apologetic—assessing.
Cataloging what she’s done to me, just as I’ve been cataloging her.
I peel myself away from her, breathing hard, body humming with aftershocks. The fog lifts from my mind, neurotransmitters settling back into their normal patterns. Rational thought clicks into place like tumblers in a lock.
I withdraw from her body, letting gravity do its work. My come drips down her thighs as I set her feet back on the floor. She wobbles slightly, steadying herself against the door.
I look her in the eyes, still getting my breathing under control, and resume my threats. “They’re gonna smell you,” I tell her, my voice returning to its usual clinical detachment. “Every man out there is gonna smell the sex we just had and want some for themselves.”
I expect her to shrink, to fold in on herself with shame or fear. That’s the point of this—to make her understand the environment she’s walking into. To show her exactly what she’s worth in Rico’s world.
But Emmaleen can’t help herself. She surprises me again with another mistake. She meets my gaze directly, her eyes clear and focused despite what we just did. No trembling, no averted eyes, no desperate need for reassurance.
“But they won’t get anywhere near me, will they? Because Giovanni Bavga isn’t the kind of man who shares.”
The statement lands like a tactical strike, perfectly targeted. She’s not asking a question—she’s making an observation. About me. About what I want. About what I’ll allow.
She continues, her voice gaining strength with each word.
“If you think I can be forced into submission with a few harsh words, Mr. Bavga, you have no idea who I am and what I’ve been through.
You don’t scare me. I’m here for the money.
And even if throwing this trump card down gives you new ideas on how to make me surrender and walk away, you’ll still lose.
Because if I walk away, that will be my choice too. ”
I stare at her, reassessing everything I thought I knew. The woman before me—half-dressed, my release still marking her thighs—isn’t cowering or breaking. She’s calculating. Maneuvering.
I turn away, fury burning through my veins. The sex was a mistake. A tactical error. I crossed a line I never intended to cross, and she’s weaponizing it already.
I grab swim trunks from a drawer and yank them on, my back to her. The sound of her bare feet padding across the floor toward the bathroom makes me pivot and catch her arm with one hand.
Her skin is warm, pulse jumping beneath my fingers. With my other hand, I shove her toward the front door. Not hard enough to hurt her, but enough to make my point. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She knows that I know exactly where she’s going. But she sets her jaw and stares up at me, silent, with that same infuriating defiance.
“Oh, no,” I say, letting my gaze burn into hers.
“You don’t get to clean up like some dainty lady, Emmaleen.
You’re dirty now. Get used to it. You wanted to be my arm candy at Rico’s party?
This is what that means. You wear what I tell you to wear.
You smell like what I tell you to smell like.
And right now, you smell like I just fucked you against the door. ”
I push her again. She stumbles slightly but catches herself. I see calculations running behind those green eyes—the money, the humiliation, the danger of Rico. She’s playing every angle.
“You think this is a game you can win,” I continue, circling her like a shark. “You think you’ve got leverage now because we fucked. Because I lost control for five minutes.”
I stop directly in front of her, close enough that I can see her pupils dilate.
“Let me be clear. You don’t have leverage. You have six demerits and a one-week contract that I can terminate at any time. What you just witnessed? That was a momentary lapse in judgment. It won’t happen again.”
The lie tastes acidic on my tongue.
We both know it will happen again.
The question is when, and who will be in control when it does.
“Welcome to the fucking party, Little Miss Take.” My voice drops to a dangerous register. “If you think I’ll just hand you thirty-one thousand dollars because you’re clever and cute, you’ve grossly underestimated my gameplay. Let’s go.”