Jino's eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"
"I wasn't too deep in subspace to miss his confessions." The memory surfaces—Giovanni's voice, soft and broken, whisperingthings he thought I couldn't hear. "He wants to be the monster. He needs to be the monster. And I want to love his monster. Let him be who he is, Jino. Let us all be who we are."
I stand up, rip the nightgown off, and drop it to the floor. Naked. Again. Because apparently that's just my default setting now.
"Tempt me into failure," I tell him.
He doesn't move.
So I do.
I kneel down on the tiny bed, closing the distance between us.
My fingers find his belt. The leather is soft, expensive. The buckle makes a satisfyingclinkas I work it open.
Button. Zipper.
My hands are steady. No trembling. No hesitation.
This is me choosing. Not complying, not submitting.
Choosing.
I pause, fingers hooked in the waistband of his boxer briefs.
"I should be punished for this," I whisper. "Shouldn't I?"
Jino's breathing has changed. Faster. Deeper.
His eyes are black.
"Shouldn't I, Master?"
The word does something to him. I watch it happen—the shift from Jino-the-concerned-friend to Jino-the-Dom. The hardening of his expression. The way his shoulders settle back. Authority, snapping into place like armor.
"Yes." His voice is gravel. "You should."
"Then do it."
He moves so fast I barely register it.
One second, I'm kneeling. The next I'm face-down on the mattress, the vinyl cool against my flushed skin.
I giggle.
I can't help it. It bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—not hysteria, not nerves. Just... happiness. Pure, uncomplicated joy at the absurdity of being exactly where I want to be.
Also, it'll piss him off. And I want him pissed. I want him to be himself. My Master.
"Something funny?" His weight settles across my lower legs, pinning me.
"Just thinking about my life choices." I press my face into the mattress. "You know, the usual. Homeless shelter to sex dungeon pipeline. Real bootstraps narrative."
His hands land on my ass. Firm. Possessive.
Then they stop.
I know what he's seeing. The welts. Giovanni's artwork, still hot and raised across my skin.