Because here's what my testosterone brain heard:Can you just shove your cock into my mouth and fuck it already?
I maneuver myself in front of her, reaching for the long hair on either side of her face. I grab it—forcefully, because she likes that—but also tenderly. Then use my thumbs to tip her chin up. Her eyes find mine immediately. Locked in.
But it's Saturday, so she's allowed to be bratty. And Emmaleen Rourke lives for the brat opportunities. "Come on, Jino. If you fuck my mouth today, I'll make you eggs for breakfast."
I smile, but don't answer.
"And toast. Hell, I'll throw in some hash browns. Maybe even pancakes if you're really good."
She's cooked for me exactly once.
Never again.
I'm not one of those dudes who gets off on the foodie shit. I can make a marginally good grilled cheese and that's about it. My carriage house kitchen stays mostly untouched except for coffee and protein shakes.
But Emmaleen is a whole other category of bad cook. The smoke alarm still has PTSD from her singular attempt at scrambled eggs.
So I tease her, my thumb tracing the fullness of her bottom lip. "Threatening me will get you nowhere, young lady. I'd rather starve than face your idea of home-cooked again."
"Well..." She angles her head just enough to catch my gaze from the corner of her eye. Her lips curving into a grin that's all trouble and no apology. "I'll take you out for breakfast then. My treat. How about that?"
We go out for breakfast every fucking Saturday morning without fail.
It's our date. The one ritual I guard more fiercely than any doctrine Giovanni ever wrote. The one morning of the week I won't bend for anyone—not business, not family emergencies,not the whole fucking world burning down around us. Saturday breakfast belongs to us. Period.
Then we hit up the thrift stores. Sometimes she finds a book and her whole face lights up like she's discovered lost scripture.
But the real treasure hunt is vintage clothes. She'll spend an hour sifting through racks of moth-eaten cardigans and polyester disasters, emerging triumphant with some flowered blouse from the seventies or a velvet jacket with questionable stains.
I'm not sure what she does with these clothes. Inside Giovanni's house she's always naked, and the few pieces she keeps in my carriage house are practical—sweats, t-shirts, nothing with pearl buttons or lace collars. Maybe she just likes the hunt itself, the possibility of transformation hidden in other people's discarded lives. Maybe it's the only shopping she can do on her own terms, choosing things for herself instead of having her wardrobe color-coded by someone else's control.
But it brings her joy to buy them, so I don't mind standing in dusty aisles smelling of mothballs and old perfume.
"I tell you what," I say, circling back to her original question. "You show me what you actually know—technique, breathing, awareness of your own limitations—and then I'll decide if we can move forward or not."
I hold up one finger, cutting off whatever protest is already forming on her lips. "And if I determine you're not ready, then that's the end of this discussion. We do things my way. Slow and steady. No shortcuts."
"Jino, there's more of a chance that you'll actually kill me with some slow, controlled throat fuck than a good old-fashioned full-on face-humping session. It's just physics." She crosses her arms, looking entirely too pleased with this declaration.
I tap her on the nose with a fingertip. "I disagree. And you need my dick to learn this, so I make the rules. And if you keep arguing, I'll put clothes on you, throw you in my car, take you out for breakfast, and you will not learn anything new today. "
She makes a face at me. "Fine. But no recap. Let me just… show you." And with that, she reaches up, pulls my sweats down, and my cock springs out—fully erect, ready for action.
Her hands wrap around the base, not waiting for instructions, or permission, or thinking about rules that don't apply here—and the next thing I know, the tip of my cock is inside her mouth.
Fuck.
Her tongue swirls around the head, and I feel my knees actually weaken slightly. She takes me deeper, her eyes locked on mine the entire time, watching my reaction. There's no hesitation, no performance anxiety. Just pure confidence as she demonstrates what she's learned.
She takes me halfway down, then pulls back slowly, her cheeks hollowing as she creates suction. Then deeper. Then back again. Her breathing is controlled through her nose, exactly like I taught her. No gagging, no panic, just steady rhythm.
I watch her work, cataloging every technique. She's good. Better than last week. Her jaw is more relaxed, her throat more open. She's remembering to breathe, to pace herself, to use her tongue.
But Giovanni doesn't want good.
He wants unreasonable.
"Stop," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
