"Two weeks." I correct him automatically. "And she's not getting close. She's getting gone."
"Right." Jino leans over the desk, pointing at Emmaleen's face on the monitor. "That's why you planned this whole game? To get rid of her?” Jino laughs. “Giovanni, when a man like you wants to get rid of someone, they have their goons throw them in a trunk and dump their body in the river. This is not getting rid of her. This is you challenging her to meet your unreasonable standards. And look at her?” He points to the monitor again. “She’s doing it. She’s fucking perfect.”
"Are you fantasizing about my sex slave? And while we’re on the subject, your dick is hard, asshole. There’s no excuse for that. You told me you were a professional, yet you get off on a little nipple flicking with a crop?”
He points to my dick. “The same could be said of you, cuz.”
“You’re missing the point. She’s mine. Her only purpose is to get me off. You’re here to intimidate her into standing up straight.”
"It's calledtraining." He gives a thin, cold smile. "And if you'd ever actually done it yourself instead of hiding up here behind your cameras, you'd know the difference."
"I know the difference between training and the way you were eyeing her like she's the last steak at Delmonico's."
"She's got better marbling." Jino shrugs. "And you're one to talk. I've never seen you lose your shit over a woman before. The great Giovanni Bavga, brought to his knees by a homeless girl with a smart mouth. I don’t even know why you’re pretending not to care. She's built like every wet dream you've never admitted to."
I glare at him. "I didn’t summon you so we could banter about standards. My slave seems to be wriggling her way past your defenses with her intelligent defiance and perky tits. It stops now. You’ve been crossing lines down there, Jino."
"Which one? The one where we pretend this is actually about business? Or the one where we pretend you're not terrified she might actually win this little game?"
"There's no winning. That's the point."
"No, the point is you're making up new rules as you go." He nods at the screen. "Look at her. Perfect form. She's not breaking. And it's driving you crazy."
I stare at the monitor, where Emmaleen hasn't moved a millimeter. "What’s driving me crazy, aside from your dick bulging inside your pants, is the fact that she’s trying too hard.”
“Too hard?” Jino blinks at me.
“Yes. She’s playing us, Jino. Trust me, I know this girl. Her obedience is her defiance.”
“That makes no sense. If she submits, she is obedient.”
“No. It’s the intention underneath. And clearly—” I point to the monitor. The perfectly still and rigid body of Emmaleen Rourke as she continues to hold her position, “—she has no intention of submitting. She’s trying to infuriate me with her fake compliance.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Give her the Banana-Split Treatment."
Jino laughs. "What the fuck is—" then stops, remembering. A small smile turns into a big smile and suddenly he's shaking his head, laughing. "You're joking, right? You want me to banana split this girl?"
"Do I stutter?"
“That’s not even a real position.”
“It is,” I counter.
“Not for subs, Giovanni. That’s a degradation ritual for?—”
“I know what it is, Jino. Now go back down there and put her in it.”
Jino blows out a breath, grabs his mask from the desk, and pulls it back on as he turns his back to me and opens the door to the basement. "I hope you know what you're doing."
And then he's gone.
I lean back in my chair, watching the monitor as Jino thumps down the stairs. "Let's see how long you last now, Miss Take."
Jino appears on screen again. He circles Emmaleen, snapping the crop on his gloved hand. Evaluating. Assessing. And… recalibrating. I know this because he finds a camera and looks at me. Under the ski mask, I detect his eyebrow going up.
He knows I'm right. She's trying very hard. She didn't move at all. She might even be holding her breath.