Page 42 of Stalking Ginevra

“Yes.” I give him a trembling nod.

The heat crawling up my neck is unbearable, every second drawing me closer to the edge. This is insane. I need to get a grip. Working closely with Bellavista might be the answer to at least one of my problems. The man is related to the Bossanova brothers. He could tell Valentino to stop sniffing around Mom.

“Miss Di Marco is under a lot of stress,” Terranova says. “She lost her father and fiancé within a space of days.”

I swallow. Not to mention the law firm I thought I would inherit. The toy ramps up its vibrations, making me moan out loud.

All eyes turn to me. My heart pounds as heat crawls up my neck, my face burning under their confused stares. The unending thrum drowns out their words, and all I can feel is the mounting pressure. I can’t breathe. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything but will my body not to react to the thing terrorizing my clit.

Terranova clears his throat. “Mr. Bellavista, I implore you not to pressure my employee at her most vulnerable. Julian Riva worked closely with Mr. Di Marco. He’s more than capable of taking on the work.”

“Fine,” Bellavista says, casting me a concerned glance.

The toy hums, pushing me to the verge of orgasm. I bolt from my seat and dash out of the room. Footsteps pound behind me, but I sprint to the bathroom, my vision blurring with tears, desperate to escape before climaxing in front of my colleagues.

The hallway stretches ahead, and it feels like everyone’s eyes are boring into my back. Each step drags me closer to disaster, the tension coiling so tight I can’t hold it together much longer. Every passing glance, every whispered conversation, seems to be about the fact that I have a sex toy buzzing inside my pussy.

Just as I reach the bathroom door, a large hand clamps down on my shoulder. I whirl around to find Julian staring down at me, his features pinched with worry, which only amplifies my humiliation.

“Let go of me.” I shove against his chest.

“Ginny, you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t steal your client,” he says. “You must think I’m a backstabber, but I’m not. I value you too much as a colleague and a friend. I didn’t… I would never. Please, listen to me, Ginny.”

Blood roars through my ears, drowning out his incessant chatter. I throw myself backward, but his grip on my shoulder holds firm. The toy pulses again, pushing me to the precipice. Every nerve battles to fight the inevitable, but the sensations are too intense. My face twists, muscles locking, but it’s useless. The pleasure overwhelms what’s left of my resolve, rippling through my body like an unstoppable wave.

I slide down the door, the orgasm reducing me to a shuddering heap.

“Ginny!”

I can’t believe it’s happening here. In front of him. Not like this…

Humiliation scorches my entire being with searing shame. I come hard, my body trembling with the force of this unwanted pleasure, my lips releasing breathless moans.

When I finally look up, there’s a tent in Julian’s pants.

SEVENTEEN

GINEVRA

I kick open a stall door, wanting to escape the bathroom’s overhead fluorescent lights. It swings shut, nearly hitting my ass, and I slide its lock into place before collapsing onto the toilet seat.

My head drops into my trembling hands, and I exhale a shuddering breath. Every inch of my body still quivers from that humiliating orgasm, and endorphins run riot through my veins. How the hell did I allow that bastard to make me climax at work?

I clench my thighs, forcing back the toy’s residual buzz. It’s a sickening reminder of how easily he manipulated me into wrecking my career.

This has to end. Now.

He’s crossed a line. I keep saying that but my chest tightens at the reminder of how he made me crumble like a broken puppet.

Scooting forward, I reach between my legs with trembling hands and grip the vibrating rod. I rip it out with a hiss, my inner muscles fluttering.

Every instinct screams at me to toss it into the sanitary bin, but that would only backfire. I glare at the object glistening with my juices, wishing I could bring him this vibrating piece of mayhem and shove it down his visor.

Instead, I wrap it in toilet paper and stuff it in my bag. Then I scrub at the moisture clinging to my thighs wanting to wipe away more than just the physical evidence.

After flushing, I unlock the door and walk to the sink. The mirror reflects a woman trapped in her own personal hell. The eyes staring back are mine, but they’re colder, harder, filled with something dark.

Pure, seething rage.

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