"Show me." Her eyes lock on mine. Pleading. Demanding. "Teach me the difference. Make me understand."
Giovanni isn't watching. He's sleeping off his mania. He's upstairs. Unconscious. Gone.
Which means this moment is just ours.
No audience. No performance. No third presence looming in the shadows, cataloging every touch for later use against us.
Just her and me.
And the choice I'm about to make.
I move my hand. Just slightly. Fingers sliding through slick heat, finding her clit, circling it with practiced precision.
She gasps. Head falling back. Mouth opening.
My fingers maintain their rhythm—steady, measured, deliberate. Everything Giovanni is not.
Her hips roll upward, chasing sensation. Seeking more contact. More pressure.
I adjust accordingly. Not pushing. Not demanding. Following her body's signals, interpreting its language. "This is love," I tell her quietly. "When it's given freely. When there's no demerit attached. No punishment waiting on the other side. Just pleasure for its own sake."
I stroke her slowly. Building sensation without rushing it. No agenda except making her feel good.
She's wet against my fingers. Impossibly so. Evidence of her body's will to survive despite everything—despite the marks on her skin, despite the threat of Giovanni upstairs, despite the wrongness of this moment.
Her thighs part wider. An invitation.
I accept it. Sliding one finger into her, then two. Feeling her body's resistance, then surrender. The way her inner muscles grip, adjust, welcome.
She whimpers. Hips rolling toward my touch. "Jino..."
My name is a breath. A plea. A confession.
I curl my fingers inside her, finding that spot that makes her shudder. Applying precise pressure. Not by accident. Not by luck. By knowledge. By design. By understanding the architecture of pleasure.
Her hand clutches my wrist, not to stop me, but to anchor herself.
Her response is wordless. A tremor running through her, building toward crescendo.
I watch her face. The flush spreading across her cheeks. The flutter of her eyelashes. The parting of her lips.
Beautiful.
Not because she's naked beneath this flimsy nightgown. Not because she's wet around my fingers. But because she's alive. Present. Here.
"Stay with me," I whisper as her eyes start to close. "Look at me, Emmaleen."
She does. Her gaze finding mine. Green meeting blue.
"This is different," I tell her. "Feel how it's different. When there's no demerit sheet. No riding crop waiting. No watching eye measuring your reaction against some imaginary standard."
Her breath quickens. Her body tightens around my fingers.
"No mask, either," she manages, the words breathless, strained. "Just... you."
Something shifts in my chest. A realignment. A recognition.
"Just me," I agree. "Just you."