Page 137 of His Game His Rules
"The control," Giovanni finishes.
"Yes."
His eyes search mine. "And what do you want from me?"
The question steals my breath.
Because the truth is too complicated, too messy, too goddamn raw to put into words. I want his darkness and his poetry. I want the monster and the man. I want him to break me, and hold me, and make me feel like I'm the only thing in his world that matters.
I want everything he won't give me.
And I want everything I already have.
"I put it all in a poem," I finally say. "Seventy-three pages about exactly what I want from you."
His thumb strokes along my jawline. "Read it to me."
My heart stutters. "My King?"
"You heard me, slave. Get on your knees. Crawl to that desk. And read me every single word you wrote about how complicated I am."
Oh fuck.
Ohfuck.
Because I didn't just write about our training sessions or the way he makes my body respond. I didn't hold back on thedark fantasies or the twisted desires or the absolutely unhinged things I imagine when I'm alone in this dungeon.
I wrote it all down.
Every. Single. Thing.
Including the parts where I admitted—in extremely explicit terza rima—exactly what I want him to do to me that he hasn't done yet.
"Now, Emmaleen."
I drop to my hands and knees. Crawl across the cold stone floor, feeling his gaze track every movement. When I reach the desk, I rise to my knees and take the notebook with trembling hands.
Giovanni settles into his throne, legs spread, one arm draped across the armrest in a pose of absolute authority.
Waiting.
I open to the first page. Clear my throat. And begin to read.
"The King descended to his dungeon throne
Where shadows danced like demons on the wall
And I, his subject, knelt before him, prone?—"
"Louder," Giovanni commands.
I raise my voice, letting it echo through the chamber.
"—And I, his subject, knelt before him, prone
My naked body offered up as thrall
To serve whatever pleasure he would own."
