Where Jino calculates, Giovannicombusts.
And apparently my nervous system finds both approaches equally compelling, which really says something deeply concerning about my psychological architecture.
Giovanni's hand moves. Just a small gesture—fingers crooked in a silent command. I know what he wants before he speaks. "Come here, little one."
His voice is different now. Quieter. That barely controlled burn beneath the surface that suggests he's running his own calculations about what comes next.
I take a step?—
"No." Sharp. Immediate. "Crawl."
Of course.Because why walk when you can thoroughly humiliate yourself across concrete floors while holding an armful of sex toys?
I lower myself back down, implements clutched against my chest like the world's most fucked-up security blanket. The floor is cold against my knees and palm. I move forward like a wobbly three-legged stool, desperately clutching the punishment tools to my chest. When I reach him, I settle back into position between his spread legs, my head tilted up to meet his gaze.
His hand comes to rest on my head.
Just... there. Palm warm against my scalp, fingers threading through my hair with a gentleness that makes my throat tight.
"Good girl."
Two words.
That's all it takes for heat to flood through me, for my breath to catch like he's just solved some equation I didn't know I was waiting for someone to complete.
Giovanni's fingers tighten slightly, angling my face up further.
"Let's talk about your choices," he murmurs, and there's something almost conversational in his tone. Like we're discussing the weather instead of the various implements I've selected for my own torture. "The candles first. Do you know what I'm going to do with those?"
I swallow hard. "Hot wax. Across my... my nipples."
"Smart girl." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I'm going to make you count each drop. And if you lose count, we start over."
Fuck. I hate that I love that. Hate that I might lose count just to keep it going.
"The clamps." His other hand reaches down, plucking them from my pile with clinical efficiency. "Adjustable. Thoughtful of you. I'll tighten them until youbeg—but not for release. For more."
My breathing is already uneven, and he hasn't even touched me yet.
Giovanni takes the collar from my hand, then holds it up, examining the O-ring like it's some kind of artifact requiring authentication.
"This," he says softly, "goes around your throat. And then I'm going to attach a chain from here"—he taps the O-ring—"to the nipple clamps. The tension will beperfect. Any movement of your head, any tilt of your neck..." He demonstrates with his hand, a gentle tug that makes his point. "...and you'll feel itexactlywhere I want you to."
Jesus Christ. A flood of warmth pools between my legs.
"The restraints." His gaze drops to the leather cuffs, and something flickers across his face. Almost... tender? "Soft. Satin-lined. You didn't choose the ones that bite. Interesting."
"I'm not trying to injure myself," I manage.
"No." His hand tightens in my hair again. "You're trying to survive me."
It's not a question.
Giovanni leans forward, bringing his face close to mine. Close enough that I can see the faint scar on his eyebrow, the exact shade of green in his eyes that seems to shift depending on his mood.
"I'm going to spread you out on the dais," he says, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Wrists attached to the throne legs. Ankles to the floor bolts. You'll be open. Completely. Unable to close your legs, unable to hide a single reaction from me."
My pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.