Giovanni (Benedetti Brothers 4)

The house is huge and quiet, so I assume it’s just him and maybe that driver. Maybe more soldiers, who knows? It’s pretty, too. Expensively done and from what I can see, extremely modern while maintaining the original design of the house. The bathroom is big and brightly lit with warm, flattering lighting. Marble from floor-to-ceiling, and the pedestal sink must be original, even though the fixtures are new. I run the tap and look at my reflection as I wash my hands. The soap smells good too. Sandalwood, I think. Like his aftershave.

“Dummy.” I look away as I clean myself up.

I am a dummy. I am attracted to him. I want him. No, more than that. I just fucked a man I’ve known for two days. Without protection. A man who has told me he will hurt me if I don’t deliver what he wants. And here I’m standing, thinking about how he looks. Thinking about how he looks at me.

I meet my reflection when I’m finished and brush out my hair with my fingers. I never wear it down, but I heard the pins fall to the floor when he pulled out my bun. Since I don’t have my purse, I have nothing to secure the thick mass.

Most of the makeup I was wearing has worn off or been fucked off. I wipe the last trace of lipstick off the side of my mouth. When I’m done, I go back out to meet him.

I walk through the archway into the living room where I find Giovanni sitting on an armchair with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. There’s a second glass on the coffee table. He gestures to it. I take a moment to look around the space. Huge and dark, with charcoal, black, or stark white furnishings. Three large windows overlook the street, and while I can make out lights from passing cars it must be soundproofed because I can’t hear any city noise. Sheer curtains provide some privacy, the heavier ones still secured to their holdbacks.

I walk inside and take a seat on the couch. I pick up the glass, sniff it.

“Do you have something else? I don’t like whiskey.”

“You drank it the other night, and you have a good collection of it.”

“My father used to drink it. It’s more of a memory, I guess.”

He nods but doesn’t make any rude comments. Instead he gets up and walks to the bar behind me.

“I’ll take vodka if you have it,” I say without turning around. I am looking at the paintings on the walls. They’re also modern, and dark. Almost violent.

Ice clanks against crystal, and a moment later, I’m sipping vodka.

He resumes his seat. Resumes studying me.

“Did you eat dinner?”

I nod and concentrate on my glass. As uncomfortable as I feel, he seems to be the opposite.

I clear my throat. “We didn’t use protection.”

“You told me you were clean. I am too. I don’t make it a habit to fuck without condoms. You?”

“None of your business.”

“It became my business the moment I stuck my dick in you. But from how tight you are, I’m guessing it’s been a while.”

“Are you seriously saying that?”

“You bled.”

“You didn’t exactly give me time to adjust to your…size.”

One corner of his mouth curves upward. “You came, Emilia. You liked it. You like my size and you like it rough.”

I blink, unable to hold his gaze. He sees too much.

“What happened to you?”

I drink the last of my vodka, then swirl the ice around in the glass. He gets up and comes back with the bottle to refill my glass, then leaves the bottle on the coffee table before sitting back down, that same commanding air about him. Like he’s the fucking king.

“Do you need to be hurt to come?”

I take a large swallow and refuse to look at him when I reply.

“Are we going to do a breakdown of the act? A moment-by moment-examination?” I ask, trying to keep my expression icy.

“Do those lines on your back have anything to do with it? Because those are something.”

I don’t answer. What can I say?

His expression is serious. “Who did it?”

I take the bottle and concentrate on pouring a third glass because the buzz I’d been working toward at the club is now gone.

“And more importantly, why?”

I look at him. “Did you bring me here to interrogate me?”

“No, I brought you here to fuck you.”

I stand and fist my hands. “Well, since that’s done, can I go now?”

“Not done,” he says with a grin. “That was round one. Now sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit down.”

I exhale loudly, then sit. Because it’s kind of stupid to keep standing there.

We drink our drinks, him watching me, me feeling the burn of his eyes on me. “Who whipped you, Emilia?”

I flinch at the word. Whipped. Like it’s the Dark fucking Ages.