Page 17 of Stalking Ginevra

Stifling a groan at her admission, I clench my jaw.

A single word from this woman’s plump lips practically has me on my knees. I should snuff her life and end her dangerous spell, but I’ve loved her for so long, killing her would be like slicing open my heart.

“Show me,” I demand.

When her gaze jumps from the knife to my helmet, I bark, “Now!”

Whimpering, she pushes back the covers, revealing her delectable body. Her skin is pale, almost luminescent in the moonlight, covered in a light sheen of sweat. Her breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath, her pale nipples hardening in the cool air. Every part of her quivers, vulnerable, exposed.

With trembling fingers, she trails a path down her belly to the apex of her thighs. Moisture glistens between the lips of her pussy as she spreads her legs. The sight grips me like a vise, tightening around my chest.

I swallow hard, my breath catching, intoxicated by the raw need. My pulse hammers in my ears, a deafening rhythm that drowns out every other thought.

She hesitates, her fingers hovering, and glances up at me through wide, fearful eyes.

“Do it,” I command, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension like a blade.

Her fingers part her folds, at first moving tentatively. She circles her clit with slow, deliberate strokes, her breath hitching. The sight stirs my most primal urges, releasing a part of me that snarls and claws for release, but I force it down, focusing instead on my simmering rage.

“Faster,” I snap, the words striking out like a punch.

She whimpers, a soft, broken sound that hits me like a jolt of electricity, making my muscles clench.

Her movements quicken, becoming more urgent as she rolls her hips.

My hands curl into tight fists as she slips two fingers into that sweet cunt with a frantic intensity. She moves like this is her last night on earth.

The room fills with the slick sound of her digits plunging into her pussy, mingling with her desperate moans. It takes every ounce of control I have not to lose myself in the debauched sight.

As her hips lift off the bed to meet her thrusts, a groan claws its way up my throat. I bite it back, my jaw aching with the effort to stay contained.

“Did I give you permission to use your fingers?” I snarl, the words coming out harsh and rough.

Tension coils in my core, threatening to snap.

“No,” she moans, her voice breathy, laced with a need that sends heat racing down my spine.

“No, what?” I deepen my voice.

“No, sir,” she gasps, her eyes flickering up to meet mine.

“Call me Master.”

“Yes, Master.” Voice trembling, she moves her hips faster, her fingers working at a feverish pace. Her cries grow louder, more desperate, filling the room and making my cock push painfully against my zipper.

The pressure is unbearable. I want to take her, to claim her, to bend her to my will, but for now, I let the tension stretch, savoring every moment of her unraveling.

Ginevra was never like this when we were together. It’s no wonder she left me for Samson. That sadistic bastard unlocked a sensuality in her I could never touch.

“Look at you, so eager to come in front of a stranger,” I growl.

She cries out.

“You’re nothing but a desperate slut,” I sneer.

Tears slip down her cheeks, but she continues, her body shaking with the effort. I revel in her submission, in her humiliation, in her degradation. Pushing Ginevra Di Marco off her pedestal is the sweetest form of addiction.

I lean in, wishing I could remove the helmet, let her see the face of the man stripping her bare.

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