Chapter 19 Giovanni
“You like this,” I say, watching her pupils dilate despite the glare of the low sun hitting her face through a break in the canvas above us. Her body tells truths her mouth won’t admit.
She doesn’t answer, but the flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck speaks volumes. Emmaleen Rourke—bakery disaster, poetry champion—is getting off on being watched.
“Which part?” My voice drops lower, scraping the bottom register where promises live. “Which part do you like, Emmaleen? The part where it’s me who’s touching you? Or the part where every man here is ready to jerk off to the expression on your face?”
I shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t put her on display like this. Especially not with Rico circling. But the way she moves against me, like she can’t help herself—it’s making me reckless.
Around us, men pretend to be engaged in conversation while their eyes keep sliding back to us.
To her. There are at least thirty naked women at this party—silicone-enhanced, professionally beautiful women who know exactly how to perform desire—and yet these men are watching Emmaleen in my oversized T-shirt like she’s the only thing worth seeing.
Because she is.
The fact that she’s the only one clothed makes her more desirable, not less. The suggestion of what’s underneath. The possibility. The tease of it.
But that’s not the only reason. It’s the way she holds herself.
Like she’s slumming it with all of us. Like she’s tolerating our existence.
Even now, straddling me with her underwear soaked through, she has this look in her eyes that says she’s calculating something more complex than just physical pleasure.
I want to break that calculation. Want to see her mind go blank when I’m inside her.
Fuck. What’s happening to me?
I slide my hands under the shirt, thumbs brushing over her nipples as they harden and peak tight, pressing against the thin cotton. I could lift the shirt right now. Show everyone exactly what they’re missing. Make Rico choke on his own tongue.
My cock throbs at the thought, and I know she feels it because her breath catches.
“Tell me,” I demand, reaching down with one hand to squeeze her ass, encouraging her to grind against me. “Tell me which part you like.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her eyes are slightly unfocused, like she’s fighting to stay present.
I could take her right here. Pull her underwear aside and fuck her in front of everyone.
She’d let me.
I can see it in the way she’s moving, seeking friction, seeking release.
She’d be tight and wet and perfect around me. Just like she was against the door. But this time I’d go slower. Make it last. Make her come twice before I finished. I’d watch her face when she climaxed, memorizing the exact moment her careful control shattered, so I could jerk off to it later.
Then I’d take her back to the pool house and do it again. And again. Keep her there all week, naked and willing. I’d make her beg for it. Make her earn every reward in that notebook. Make her come so many times she’d forget her own name.
Keep her forever.
No. Not forever. What the fuck am I thinking?
The rest of the week, though. I own her for six more days, and I’m going to make the most of every hour. By the time she walks away with that money, she’ll have earned every dollar.
I’ve never wanted a woman like this. Never felt this desperate need to possess someone completely. It’s not just sex—though the sex is already addictive. It’s the way she challenges me. The way she sees through my bullshit. The way she surrenders without breaking.
Little Miss Take. My little disaster with her yellow cardigan and heart-covered socks and words that cut like glass.
She shifts in my lap, and I realize I’ve been silent too long, lost in thoughts of all the ways I want to ruin her.
“Answer me,” I say, tightening my grip on her.
She leans closer, her breath warm against my ear. “I like that you notice things.”
Not what I expected. Not even close.
“Notice things,” I repeat flatly. “That’s what you’re going with.”
Her eyes flicker down, then back up to mine with that calculating look. “You notice when I’m uncomfortable. When I’m... affected.”
Jesus Christ. We’re in the middle of a sex party with her grinding on my lap, and she’s using words like “affected.” Like we’re discussing a fucking business proposal.
“Try again,” I say, voice tight. “And use real words this time.”
“Those are real words,” she counters, a hint of academic superiority creeping in.
“No. They’re hiding words. Say what you mean.”
She swallows, her throat working. “I like that you... touch me... in ways that are...”
“Are what?” I press, fascinated by her struggle. The woman who recited poetry about armor and connection can’t say she likes to be fingered.
“Pleasurable,” she finally manages, her face flushing deeper.
I almost laugh. “Pleasurable.”
This is unexpected. This hesitation. This... prudishness. Little Miss Take, who stares down mobsters and drives Lamborghinis and fucks against doors, can’t talk dirty to save her life.
I’ve found her weakness.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say, cupping her breast in one hand while I slide the other one over her ass cheek. “I’ll cancel three more demerits if you tell me, in explicit detail, which part of fucking me you liked best.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“But,” I continue, “if you use words like ‘pleasurable’ or ‘affected’ or any other academic bullshit, you’ll earn ten more demerits instead.”
She stares at me, processing the terms.
“Well?” I prompt. “Three demerits gone. You’ll be down to five. That’s almost your entire slate wiped clean. All you have to do is tell me what you liked. With the right words.”
“I liked when you...” She pauses, visibly struggling. “When you used your... fingers.”
“My fingers,” I repeat, moving one thumb to brush across her nipple through the shirt. “What about them?”
“They were...” Another pause. “Inside me.”
“And?”
“And it felt... good.”
I sigh dramatically. “Good. That’s the best you can do? Good? That’s a demerit. You’re up to nine now.”
Her lips press together in frustration. “Fine. It felt amazing when you... when you...”
“When I what?” I’m enjoying this far too much.
“When you touched my... down there.”
I actually do laugh this time. “Down there? What are you, twelve? That’s it, I warned you. All those demerits you erased in the car—back now. You’re at nineteen. Congratulations.”
“That’s not fair,” she protests, shifting on my lap. The movement sends a jolt of pleasure through me.
“Life isn’t fair, Little Miss Take. Now try again. What did you like about fucking me?”
She takes a deep breath. “I liked when you pushed me against the door.”
Better. “And?”
“And when you... when you...” She closes her eyes briefly. “When you put your fingers inside me.”
“Inside your what?”
“My...” She looks like she might combust from embarrassment. “My... pussy.”
The word sounds foreign on her tongue. Like she’s speaking a language she barely knows. But she said it.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and I feel her clench against me at the praise. Interesting. “What else?”
“I liked how you felt inside me. How... big you were.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“And what did you want me to do to you?”
“I wanted you to...” She leans forward, her lips at my ear again, voice barely audible. “Fuck me harder.”
The words send a surge of heat through me. Not because they’re particularly filthy—they’re not—but because of how much they cost her to say. How far outside her comfort zone she had to go. I can feel the tension radiating from her body, the slight tremble in her thighs as they press against mine.
This admission—these three simple words—represent a surrender of the careful control she maintains over herself.
It’s a big win.
Her breath is warm against my neck, quickened with the effort of her confession.
The scent of her—that intoxicating mix of vanilla and something uniquely her—fills my senses.
Her hair brushes against my cheek, soft as silk, and I resist the urge to wrap it around my fist and pull her head back to see the flush I know is spreading across her skin.
The blush that always starts at her chest and climbs upward when she’s aroused or embarrassed—and right now, she’s clearly both.
I remain perfectly still, savoring this moment of her discomfort.
Not because I enjoy her suffering—though there’s a part of me that does—but because I recognize the value of what she’s giving me.
Each stilted confession, each reluctant admission is a piece of her armor being stripped away.
And beneath that armor is something far more valuable than her body, something she guards even more fiercely: her true self.
I slide my hand up her thigh, just beneath the hem of my shirt. “Fourteen demerits gone,” I tell her, rewarding her confession. “Back to five. But now I want to hear you moan when I tell you exactly what I’m going to do to that tight little pussy of yours.”
Her breathing quickens, chest rising and falling against mine.
“I’m going to spread those pretty thighs and bury my cock so deep inside you that you’ll feel me for days,” I continue, voice low enough that only she can hear. “Every time you sit down, you’ll remember how I stretched you open.”
She shivers against me, eyes widening at my language. Good. She should be shocked.
I brush my thumb over her nipple again, then twist it just hard enough to make her gasp.
“These perfect tits,” I murmur, cupping one in my palm. “I want to mark them. Leave bruises where only I can see them. Would you like that?”
She doesn’t answer, but her pulse jumps visibly at her throat.
“Answer me,” I demand, pinching her nipple just hard enough to make her gasp.
“Yes,” she whispers, the admission barely audible over the music.