Page 123 of Stalking Ginevra

She tastes like sin—dangerous, forbidden, and utterly addictive.

I let myself drown in Ginevra’s warmth and scent, remembering how perfectly we fit together. It’s like I’m back with the girl I fell in love with—the one who used to steal my sweatshirts, curl up in my lap, and laugh like I was her entire world.

But then reality slams back into my senses, and I tear away, my breath ragged and my heart pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. That girl I loved no longer exists.

“Don’t think this changes anything,” I rasp.

Ginevra gazes up at me, unmoving, her lips swollen, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

She thinks she’s won, but she hasn’t.

Not even close.

FIFTY-SIX

GINEVRA

I reel on my feet, breathless from Benito’s kiss. It’s been years since any lips last touched mine, and now I’m tingling for more.

No one kisses like Benito. Hell, no one’s ever kissed me at all apart from him. I might have slept with Samson once and fooled around with Bob Brisket, but at least one part of me has always been faithful to Benito.

I hoped that kiss would bring something back, that it would reignite our old connection. But he avoids my gaze. His arm returns to the small of my back as if what we just shared meant nothing.

He walks me through the heart of the casino, passing workers in red uniforms mingling with gamblers in evening wear. They’re a welcome distraction from the mess of my swirling emotions.

Regardless of the cold front, Benito holds me close, his grip possessive. His touch is both comforting and suffocating. How can one man offer me safety at the cost of my freedom? With themen casting him approving glances, it feels like he’s parading me around as a trophy.

I glance at Benito from the corner of my eye. His jaw is set with those cold eyes scanning the casino floor. I can’t shake the image of the boy who once loved me so desperately.

That kiss replays in my mind—soft at first, then fierce. My lips still burn from our connection, but the coldness in Benito’s eyes snuffs out any lingering warmth. A knot tightens in my chest. Is this how it’s going to be now? Him pulling the strings, keeping me close but never letting me in?

This hot and cold act is leaving me aching.

As we pass the poker tables, a small group of gamblers shoots us looks—some envious, others curious. I’m not blind to the way women eye Benito. With his athletic physique, he’s even more commanding. I barely recognize him now that he owns the casino and its attached hotels.

Passing a pair of security guards built like trolls, we ascend a crystal staircase. It leads to a private dining room with a wall of glass overlooking the casino floor. The waiter guides us to a table lit with candles. It’s all too intimate, too much like the past.

Benito pulls out my chair like a gentleman, and I sink into my seat. Memories flood in from dinners at our student apartment, in restaurants, at the Montesano mansion, where we were the only people in the world. Now, there’s a distance between us I can’t bridge.

He takes his seat, his face a mask of control, but I know Benito better than that. He’s wrestling with something. I can see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten around the napkin.

Pressure builds up around my chest. I should break the silence. If I don’t speak now, we’ll keep circling each other like this forever.

“How long are we going to stay angry at each other?” My voice is soft, but the question cuts deep from the flicker of emotion that crosses his handsome features.

When he clenches his jaw, I press on. “We were friends once, weren’t we?”

His eyes darken, and his mouth pulls into a tight line. Shit. That was the wrong thing to say. He’s always hated that word, preferring to call ourselves soulmates, even when we were ten.

“Is that what I ever was to you? A friend?”

The accusation lands like a slap, making me flinch. “Every good relationship is built on a foundation of friendship.”

When his nostrils flare, I push back my chair and stand. My instincts want to tell him the truth, but getting him to listen is harder than climbing a mountain. Benito sits up, his eyes narrowing. I walk around the table, place my hands on his shoulders and demand his attention.

His muscles bunch beneath my fingers, and he keeps his eyes straight ahead. Even without him looking at me, I press on, needing him to listen. The words I’ve rehearsed a thousand times catch in my throat. What if he looks up, and all I see is disbelief?

“My dad forced me to end our engagement,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I didn’t want to leave you. I never did.”

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