Page 32 of Stalking Ginevra

His deep growl reverberates through my core.

“Don’t touch my friend,” I say.

He stares down at me, his helmet obscuring his features. I try not to think about why he hides his face. Try not to imagine the elderly gardener or some of the older Montesano lackeys. I’m no erection expert but my stalker’s dick is long and strong and powerful. And thick. It helps me imagine he’s in his late twenties or early thirties.

“I see a lot of standing around but no stripping,” he says.

Stepping backward, I pull off my nightgown, exposing my body to his gaze. Cool air swirls around my bare skin, making my nipples tighten.

His breath quickens, as if he likes what he sees, infusing me with a perverted sense of confidence. Samson always said my nipples were too big for my breasts, calling me a show dog, a bitch only good for display. The guards he invited to watchmy degradation laughed and agreed, making me feel lower than shit.

Pushing back the memories, I snap, “There. I’m naked. Will you move away from the door?”

“Beg,” he growls.

“Please,” I say through clenched teeth.

“On the floor.”

What’s left of my pride urges me to resist, but he snarls so menacingly that I drop to my knees. His helmet follows my movement as if he’s transfixed. I can’t believe I’m comparing a stalker to my ex. Samson’s degradation might have been bearable if he and his men thought I was hot. Most of the time, they played cards or watched TV, with me writhing in the background. The only time he’d pay attention was when I stopped.

“I’m begging now,” I say, my voice wavering. “Please, don’t go out there and hurt my friend.”

The stalker moves away from the door and to the chair where I left yesterday’s clothes. He picks up my discarded panties and brings them to where I’m kneeling.

“Open.”

I rear back. “What?”

He grabs my cheeks, squeezing so hard that my jaws part. “Be a good girl and take these filthy panties.”

Without warning, he stuffs the fabric into my mouth, his hand clamping down over my lips before I can protest. The panties slide over my tongue, pushing toward the back of my throat. I try to pull back, to spit them out, but his grip tightens. My breath turns shallow, each inhale a battle, my skin pricking with humiliation.

They’re wetter than expected. Saltier, too. My brow furrows. Did he? Realization hits me in the solar plexus, and I flinch. That armor-clad bastard masturbated in my panties. Now, they’rehalfway down my throat. I gag on the semen-sodden silk, my eyes widening.

Reaching into his back pocket, he extracts a roll of tape, tears off a piece, and presses it over my lips. Then he discards the rest, pulls out a marker, and draws something on my covered mouth.

His chest shakes as if he finds my outrage amusing.

What an asshole.

“Crawl across the room and present yourself.” He pushes my head down with so much force, I need to place my palms on the floor to break my fall.

Grinding my teeth, I refuse to comply. I’ve done everything he wants. This has gone far enough.

All thoughts of rebellion vanish the moment he steps on my hand. It’s more shocking than painful, and I yelp into the gag, my eyes pricking with tears.

“Quiet,” he says. “You don’t want to wake Martina.”

With a nod, I pull my hand free and crawl across the room. His gaze burns into me, igniting a dark, arousing sensation.

I try not to shiver, but the effort is futile. My clit swells, and arousal trickles down my thighs. My pussy hasn’t yet gotten the message that this isn’t a sexy game.

This masked pervert is making me unravel. My pulse pounds, and my thoughts scatter into chaos. I’m losing control—of my reaction, of the situation.

Something silver glints on the nightstand. A butt plug with a poofy orange tail. I rear back. Does he expect me to shove that up my ass?

“Bring it,” he snarls.

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