Page 24 of Stalking Ginevra

“Ginevra Di Marco is no bitch,” I snarl.

Cowering, he glares up at me, his eyes shining with murderous intent. “My apologies,” he grinds out. “I only meant to say she was tenacious.”

I flash my teeth, making him flinch. “Keep working on the mother. Make her agree to a wedding date. Arrange for the most lucrative life insurance policy and find a way for it to fall into Ginevra’s hands.”

“How?” he asks, his eyes blazing with resentment.

“You’re the conniving Casanova,” I snarl. “Work it out.”

“And afterward, you’ll tell me how Roman escaped Death Row,” he says through whitened teeth.

I nod. “That’s our agreement.”

“Because Gianni doesn’t deserve the electric chair.”

And the wives they murdered didn’t deserve the accidents, poisonings, or staged suicides.

Roman walked out of Death Row because he was innocent. He’d never met the woman he was supposed to have raped and murdered. After our cousin, Leroi, massacred the Capello family, he found hard drives containing footage of the real killer. Footage that didn’t just exonerate him but identified that we’d been stabbed in the back by a trusted associate.

“Roman’s having a welcome home party tonight in the ballroom. Bring Losanna. Formal dress.”

Face pinching, he manages to nod.

“Dismissed,” I say.

Bossanova slinks out of Dad’s study like a whipped dog. By the time I return to the desk, Ginevra has already moved to her dressing room, where she’s dried off and slipped on cream underwear.

I watch, mesmerized, as she runs lotion over her pale skin, her fingers caressing those gentle curves. She’s doing this on purpose, driving me insane with the way her hands glide over every dip and contour. Her movements are slow and deliberate, a torturous seduction I’m powerless to resist.

My breath catches, and a familiar heat stirs low in my gut. My cock lengthens and thickens until it’s straining against my zipper.

I can barely breathe as her hands skim across her collarbone, down to the soft swell of her breasts, lingering on the delicate skin before sliding lower, over her abdomen. Her fingers spread the lotion at a tantalizing pace, as if she knows I’m watching and wants to light a fire under my skin that only she can extinguish.

Last night, those delicate hands stroked me almost to completion, lubricated with her arousal. Ginevra has become a dirty girl, hungering for my cum. And she’ll get it—more than she can handle. I’ll have it spilling from every tight, trembling hole.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, my cock throbbing against the confines of my pants.

Groaning, I reach into my pocket and extract one of the panties I took from her laundry basket. The silk is cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the raging heat of my libido. Holding them to my nose, I inhale the sweet musk of her desire—an intoxicating scent that invades my senses, leaving me lightheaded.

My tongue darts out to lick the remnants of moisture clinging to the silk fabric. She’s all-consuming, a fever burning through my veins, leaving me ravenous.

No other woman will ever have this effect on my soul—only Ginevra. She’s a drug, and I’m hopelessly addicted.

As she slips on a shirt, the thought of what I’m going to do to my dirty little Ginny—how I’m going to break her—becomes more than I can bear.

My mind swarms with depraved images. I’ll have her on her knees, begging for my cock, eyes wide and desperate, knowing that the only way to quench her desire is to take me beyond her limits. I’ll fill that sweet pussy until it’s overflowing.

Reaching beneath the desk, I pull down my zipper and my cock springs free. Its swollen head is already slick with pre-cum. I wrap her panties around my shaft, the silk gliding against my skin as I make slow, deliberate strokes.

I imagine her tongue sliding out for another taste, those pouty lips stretched wide as she struggles to take the girth of my crown, the way she’d gag and choke as I thrust deeper, holding her head in place as I pound into her throat.

Pressure builds, coiling tight in my core, a firestorm of all-consuming lust. I force myself to slow down, to prolong the agony, to savor every moment of this exquisite torture.

Onscreen, Ginevra sets down the lotion and collapses onto a bench and sobs. Tears stream down her cheeks, and her beautiful features twist with anguish.

“Are you crying for me, little Ginny?” I croon, my fingers quickening over my shaft.

She bows her head, robbing me of the sight of her destruction, her shoulders shaking with the force of her misery.

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