Epilogue Emmaleen #2
Who knew my terrifying BDSM trainer moonlighted as a personal stylist?
The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, and my muscles tense automatically. The footsteps descending are heavier than Jino's, more deliberate. Less grace, more purpose.
Giovanni.
My body responds before my brain can catch up—spine straightening, ass lifting slightly higher, forehead pressing more firmly into the mat. Perfect Position Three.
My skin prickles with awareness. Despite the multiple orgasms Jino coaxed from me, despite the bone-deep satisfaction still lingering in my muscles, my body immediately readies itself for Giovanni.
My nipples tighten. Heat pools between my legs.
I'm Pavlov's submissive, conditioned to respond to the mere sound of his footsteps.
Is this my life now? Getting fucked senseless by one man only to get wet at the approach of another?
Yes. Yes, it is.
And I regret nothing.
I hear him cross the stone floor, the whisper of expensive fabric as he sits on the throne. I stay motionless, frozen in my perfect bow, waiting. Always waiting.
"You've done exceptionally well today." Giovanni's voice rolls through the dungeon, dark and smooth, like aged whiskey.
The praise makes me dizzy with pleasure. It shouldn't matter this much—the approval of a man who keeps me locked in his basement—but it does. It matters more than anything.
"Come here, little one." The words I've been waiting for. "Throne Position."
I rise gracefully—as gracefully as my thoroughly-fucked body allows—and move toward him, keeping my eyes downcast. Each step feels like moving through honey, my muscles tender and trembling from Jino's attentions.
I cross the cold stone floor with measured steps, the air kissing my naked skin with each movement.
When I reach the throne, I sink to my knees between Giovanni's legs, the motion practiced now, almost reverent.
I rest my cheek against his thigh, feeling the luxurious fabric of his pants against my flushed skin.
The fine wool is warm from his body, and beneath it, I can feel the unmistakable heat and impressive length of him.
His arousal is evident, and knowing I've caused it sends a flutter of pride through my chest.
I breathe in deeply, letting his scent wash over me—that expensive cologne with notes of bergamot and cedar, but underneath it, something darker and richer that's purely Giovanni.
It's a scent I've come to associate with safety and danger in equal measure, a contradiction like the man himself.
My body responds instinctively, my breath quickening slightly as I press myself closer to him, seeking more of his warmth, more of his presence.
How did I get here? How did I go from living in a women's shelter to kneeling at the feet of a mob boss who killed his cousin to save me? How did I end up with not one but two men who see through every defense I've built?
And how the hell did I get lucky enough to belong to both of them?
Giovanni's hand comes to rest on my head, fingers threading through my hair. "Look at me," he commands softly.
I lift my gaze to his face, and my breath catches. It's always like this—the first moment I'm allowed to look at him feels like a gift. Giovanni Bavga is built like a fucking god, all sharp angles and perfect proportions. His green eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"Straddle me," he says, his voice dropping lower as he grips my hair firmly.
I climb into his lap with practiced care, one knee on either side of his thighs, careful to keep my weight balanced. I avoid his eyes until given permission, focusing instead on the perfect knot of his tie.
"It's Sunday," he says, his hands moving to my waist, then skimming up my sides to cup my breasts. "Jino and I will be leaving soon for dinner at Mama's."
His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I bite back a moan. Every touch feels like ownership, like he's reminding my body it belongs to him. And it does.
Slavery: the career choice they don't mention at high school job fairs. Side effects may include multiple orgasms, psychological reconfiguration, and the inability to ever be satisfied by normal men again. But hey, the dental plan is solid.
But I am happy. So blindingly, confusingly, overwhelmingly happy. The world makes sense when I'm with them. The constant static in my head quiets. The endless loop of self-doubt falls silent.
Giovanni's hand slides between my legs, and he makes a satisfied sound when he finds me already wet. "My little slut," he murmurs, the words dripping with affection. "Always ready for me."
I should be offended, but those three words—my little slut—make me wetter than all of Jino's expert manipulation combined.
"Good girl," Giovanni whispers, his fingers circling lazily. "So responsive."
He shifts beneath me, one hand pressed against the small of my back to hold me steady while the other reaches between us. I hear the soft rasp of his zipper, feel the hard length of him against my inner thigh.
"Ride me," he commands, positioning himself at my entrance.
I sink down slowly, savoring every deliberate inch as my body yields to accommodate him.
Despite Jino's thorough preparation, Giovanni is different—bigger, thicker, filling me in a way that demands surrender.
The stretch is exquisite, a delicious burn that borders on too much but never quite crosses that line.
My breath catches in my throat, held hostage by the sensation of being opened, claimed, possessed. Each fraction of movement downward sends sparks through my nervous system, my inner walls protesting and welcoming him simultaneously.
The fullness is overwhelming, making me hyperaware of every nerve ending, every point where our bodies connect. I pause halfway, trembling with the effort of going slow when everything in me wants to slam down and take all of him at once.
"That's it," he encourages, his hands guiding my hips. "Take all of me."
I obey, as I always do, until his cock is buried inside me. We stay like that for a moment, perfectly still, perfectly connected. Then I begin to move, setting a slow, torturous rhythm that makes both of us groan.
This isn't like with Jino. That was all technique and precision, calculated to bring maximum pleasure. This is raw and primal and almost spiritual. Giovanni fucks like he's claiming territory, like he's marking me from the inside out.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he guides my movements, controlling the pace even as he lets me do the work. Every thrust hits something deep inside me, something beyond physical pleasure.
"Mine," he growls against my neck, his teeth grazing my skin. "Say it."
"Yours, my King," I gasp, the words barely audible as pleasure builds inside me. "Always yours."
The tension coils tighter between us with each passing second, each deliberate thrust building on the last like a symphony approaching its crescendo.
I can feel the shift in Giovanni's movements, the way his careful control begins to fray at the edges.
His fingers dig deeper into the flesh of my hips, hard enough that I know I'll find the marks tomorrow—five perfect bruises on each side, a map of this moment branded into my skin.
His breathing changes, becoming harsher, more ragged. The precision that usually defines every aspect of Giovanni Bavga starts to crack, revealing something raw and almost desperate underneath. His rhythm stutters, losing that measured cadence as instinct overtakes strategy.
"Inside you," he warns, and his voice has gone rough, strained with the effort of holding back even these few seconds longer. Every word is forced out between harsh breaths. "I'm going to come inside you."
It's not a question. It's not even really a warning—it's a declaration of ownership, another way of marking me as his. His grip on my hips tightens impossibly further, holding me in place, making sure I feel every inch of him as he drives deeper.
The words push me over the edge, and I shatter around him, my inner muscles clenching as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. Giovanni follows immediately, his release hot and pulsing deep inside me as he groans against my throat.
I collapse against his chest, boneless and spent. His arms come around me, holding me close as our breathing slows. His hand strokes up and down my spine with surprising tenderness.
"You continue to surprise me," he murmurs against my hair. "The way you surrender. The way you fight. Everything about you."
I make a small sound of contentment, too exhausted for words. His hand moves to cradle the back of my head, fingers playing with my hair.
"My monster has been rattling the cage lately," he says quietly, the non sequitur making me tense slightly in his arms, my post-orgasmic haze evaporating as his words register.
His thumb traces lazy circles on my bare shoulder, the gentleness at odds with what he's saying. "It needs to be fed. Needs to be unleashed." His other hand slides down my spine, possessive and claiming, as if anchoring me to him while he confesses this darkness.
"I've kept it contained for too long, little one.
Civilized. Controlled." The word comes out with distaste, like it's foreign on his tongue.
"But you..." His fingers tighten fractionally, just enough that I feel the threat of his strength beneath the caress.
"You make me want to let it loose. To show you exactly what kind of man you've bound yourself to. "
I press myself closer to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
The words should terrify me—some rational part of my brain knows that, screams it even—but they don't. Instead, there's a perverse thrill unfurling in my belly, a dark flower of anticipation blooming where fear should take root.