His hands find my hips immediately, fingers pressing into the flesh hard enough that I know I'll carry the evidence tomorrow—perfect crescent moons marking where he held me. But he doesn't guide me. Doesn't force the pace or dictate the rhythm like I expected.
He surrenders control.
Lets me take what I came here demanding.
I start to move, rolling my hips in slow, deliberate circles, searching for that perfect angle that makes electricity spike up my spine. My thighs flex as I rise up, then sink back down, establishing a rhythm that's all mine. Giovanni's head drops back against the ornate wooden frame of the throne, exposing the strong column of his throat. But his eyes—those piercing green eyes—never leave my face. He watches me with an intensity that makes me feel simultaneously stripped bare and worshipped.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Take it. Take everything you need from me."
So I do.
I ride him like I'm trying to chase away every moment of doubt, every second of fear, every question about whether this is wrong or right or completely fucking insane. I ride him until my thighs are burning and my breath is coming in ragged gasps.
Giovanni's hands slide up my body, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples in a touch that's somehow both possessive and reverent.
"You're mine," he says, and it's not a question. "Say it."
"I'm yours," I gasp.
"Again."
"I'm yours, my King."
"Louder."
"I'm yours!" I'm close now, so close, my body coiling tighter and tighter. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'myours?—"
The orgasm hits me like a freight train. I bite down on Giovanni's shoulder—hard enough to leave marks—to muffle the scream that tries to rip out of my throat. My entire body convulses, writhing and whimpering as pleasure crashes through me in devastating waves.
Giovanni holds me through it, one hand fisted in my hair, the other splayed across my lower back, keeping me pressed tight against him.
When I finally go limp, trembling and gasping, he shifts us carefully. Pulls me more fully into his lap, arranging my legs so I'm kneeling on the spaces between his legs and the chair, comfortable enough to curl against his chest as my body continues to shudder with aftershocks.
His cock is still inside me. Still hard.
But he doesn't move. Doesn't chase his own release.
He just holds me.
Pets my hair with long, soothing strokes.
Lets me breathe.
"I'm afraid of it," Giovanni says quietly, after what feels like an eternity of silence.
I don't ask what he means. I already know.
"The monster," he continues, his voice rough. "I'm afraid of what it wants to do to you. What itwilldo to you if I let it."
His hand keeps stroking my hair. Gentle. Almost tender.
"Jino can stay."
The words hit me like a blow.
Because I understand now. Finally, fully understand.
Giovanni is more terrified of being alone with his own darkness than he is jealous of Jino. He’s more worried about what might happen to me if there's no one there to pull him back from the edge.
