Any second now.
Any second.
Another snore rips through the darkness.
Deep. Rattling. Completely fucking oblivious.
He's out. Gone.
I stare at the ceiling. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, between my legs. The heat is unbearable—a feverish flush spreading across my skin that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with five weeks of conditioning that taught my body to expect release after arousal.
Giovanni always finished what he started.
Always.
Even when he was punishing me, even when I was crying and begging and certain I couldn't take anymore—he gave me what I needed at the end. The circuit completed, the tension released, the desperate ache satisfied—even if it was by failure.
Demerits cleared.
But not last night.
I'm sweating now. Actually sweating. The borrowed henley clings to my back, damp and uncomfortable. My skin feels too tight, like I've been wrapped in plastic.
My free hand twitches at my side.
I could just...
No.
No, I can't.
Article VI of the Bavga Doctrine:No self-touch. No scratching, fidgeting, or grooming without permission. Absolutely no masturbating without permission.
The rule echoes in my head with Jino's voice. Calm. Methodical. Absolute.
The heat shifts to chills. Goosebumps race down my arms, my stomach, my thighs. I'm shivering suddenly, teeth chattering, even though the room isn't cold.
Then the heat comes back. Worse than before. A flush that starts in my chest and spreads everywhere, turning my skin pink and sensitive.
I feel sick.
Actually, genuinely sick even as my clit throbs with every heartbeat. The ache between my legs is no longer pleasant—it'spainful, a deep cramping need that makes me want to curl into a ball and sob.
Please,I think, and I don't even know who I'm begging to.Please, someone, anyone, just?—
Lorcan snores again.
9
I'm standing at the window in my bedroom suite facing the garage. It's almost dawn and one of the garage doors is open. Lights blazing inside like a crime scene.
Jino's in there, hitting the heavy bag.
I can hear it from up here, a rhythm so consistent it could be a metronome.
He's been at it for two hours.
The bag swings. Jino adjusts. Strikes again.
