Page 146 of Stalking Ginevra

I make a mental note to ask both Mr. and Mrs. Clark about Victor Bellavista. If the daughter is in any way connected to the slot machines, I will use her as bait.

SIXTY-SIX

GINEVRA

I lie on the rug, my breath shallow, my body still trembling through the aftermath. The orgasm Benito gave me was powerful enough, but my soul is shaken.

A dull ache radiates between my thighs, but it’s nothing compared to my spirit. Two men in the space of eight hours. Both harsh in equal measures, but only one of them is my husband.

And I cheated on him.

The thought slams into my heart like a poisoned dagger, filling my chest with an ache worse than the one in my core. My first time with Benito was supposed to be tender, warm, filled with love, not demanding, degrading, and devoid of affection.

How did I let his love for me crumble?

His kisses were like sunshine. I loved the way he’d cup my face in his hands like I was the most precious thing in the world. His touch was always so soft, so patient, never intrusive like the way it felt today. But back then, it left me sexually frustrated. This new Benito leaves me aching for his love, his warmth, the part of him beneath the layers of cold control.

Maybe his love for me is gone. I probably killed it the day I left.

The soreness between my legs flares, and I push myself up, wincing as my muscles protest. My pussy throbs, feeling raw, exposed, thoroughly ravished. With shaking fingers, I reach for my fallen kimono and pull it over my shoulders. The cool silk clings to my damp skin, doing nothing to soothe the fire burning beneath my flesh.

Cum slides down my inner thighs, sticky and warm. I swallow the lump rising in my throat. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? I begged him to breed me, to keep me as his wife. Now, I have to live with the consequences.

With a sigh, I limp to the bathroom, each step bringing with it a delicious ache. Benito wasn’t as rough as Brisket, and he even gave me a semblance of control. But those filthy words... I shiver, my nipples tightening. Did he have to make me feel like some kind of animal? Benito wanted me to savor every inch. To make me moan like a bitch. To make me understand that no man could satisfy me like my husband.

It was almost as humiliating as the cat ears and that awful plug.

Why the hell am I thinking of that psychopath? I need to forget Brisket ever existed.

When I reach the bathroom, I turn on the faucet and splash my face with cold water. I avoid my reflection. The woman staring back has long fallen off her pedestal. I’m exhausted from having two men in one night. Two hard, thrusting cocks. Two very different but very powerful men.

“Will you please shut the fuck up?” I say out loud and place my cold fingers on my pussy.

It’s hot and wet, still sensitive from two orgasms and a hard pounding. More, if I count last night, which never happened. That’s right. It was just a fever dream.

A knock at the door breaks through my thoughts. It has to be Carla, returning to clear away the tray. I barely touched the fondue. How could I, knowing I’d cheated on Benito?

I step out of the bathroom, just as the suite’s door opens, and Carla slips inside. She glances at me, her brows pulling together into the slightest frown as she notices my disheveled state.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Montesano?” Her voice is soft, careful, as if she’s ready for an explosion.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. No, I’m not okay. I’m barely clinging onto sanity, but what the hell can I say? How do I even begin to explain? I force a smile, but I’m certain my eyes remain haunted.

“Sure, I’m fine,” I say, the words sounding distant and flat.

The muscles of my pussy spasm, making me wince. In the five years I was engaged to Samson, he tortured me with toys, dildos, all manner of objects. But nothing compares to an erect penis powered by a man’s punishing thrusts.

Carla’s gaze lingers on me for a second too long for comfort, but she doesn’t push. When she turns back to the table and clears the dishes, I finally exhale. The silence between us hangs overhead like a storm cloud, ready to burst.

I’m aching to talk to Martina, but we’re no longer friends. Hell, we never were. She blames me for Dad being a disgusting predator. And Mom wouldn’t understand. She acts like my marriage to Benito is worse than murdering Valentino Bossanova or falling prey to loan sharks.

My gaze drifts to the gold band on Carla’s finger, and I remember what she said the day before. I can’t talk to her about Benito because he’s her boss, but the words escape my mouth before I can stop them.

“Did your husband enjoy yesterday’s charcuterie board ?”

She freezes, her hand hovering over the tray. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t respond, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some unspokenline. Then she turns to me with a small smile. It’s polite, but edged with discomfort.

“I’m not married,” she replies.

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