Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
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.