Not by Adrian.
By him.
He opens a drawer, palms a roll of gaffer tape, shows it to me like a question.
The difference between Luigi and every man in this city is right there. He can be ruthless without stealing my choice. He can be dangerous without turning me into a victim.
“My pace,” he says. “Your word?”
“Amore,” I answer, already lifting my wrists.
His gaze drops to my wrists like he’s imagining all the ways he could ruin a man for ever touching them.
Then he does something worse.
He is gentle.
Hekisses my wrists first. Soft. Possessive. Like he’s making a point that this part of me is his to protect, not to take. One neat loop of tape to hold, snug. Secure. Not cruel.
I experience the restraint and the permission at the same time. It makes my stomach pull tight.
I test the give. He tests my breath with his palm at my throat, light and sure, two fingers of space. I lean into it.
The pressure is a question I keep answering.
His eyes stay on mine like he is counting my pulse instead of my compliance.
“Tell me what you want,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. It’s harder to want out loud than it is to obey.
Because wanting is admitting I’m not just surviving.
Wanting is admitting he can do this to me again.
“I want to feel safe,” I say. “I want to feel owned by nobody except my own choices.”
The words come out like a confession and a threat.
His expression changes. Something protective settles into him and turns sharp at the edges.
“Then I will hold you,” he says. “Not take you.”
The distinction hits me low and deep.
My body reacts like it believes him, and that is the most reckless thing about me.
“You trust me?”
I nod once, because words will break if I try.
Because if I speak, it’ll sound like surrender, and I’m not ready to give him that satisfaction.
“Good girl,” he says against my mouth, and the praise lands like fire.
It isn’t sweet.
It’s ownership that I chose.
