Page 69 of Stalking Ginevra

TWENTY-NINE

GINEVRA

My nipples still ache from yesterday’s encounter with Bob Brisket. The muscles in my pussy still spasm with need.

That masked bastard is corrupting my spirit.

I lean against the elevator wall, gripping the handrail so tightly that my knuckles ache. My gaze fixes on the numbers above, watching them ascend toward the thirtieth floor. No matter how much I try to force back those memories, they rise to the surface, bringing with them a festering mix of anger and humiliation.

And an unquenchable desire.

The doors slide open, revealing the office thick with hostility. What was once a second home now feels more like a trap. Pressure builds in my chest, ready to explode. Mom has a point. It's time for me to find another job.

I step out into the reception area, only to hear, “Did you find The Meat Show okay?”

My gaze snaps to Pamela’s smug face, and a question slices through my already frayed nerves. Did she know what was waiting for me yesterday?

Heart hammering, I breathe hard, forcing my features to stay neutral. I won’t let her see me rattled. But that smirk pulling at her lips heats my blood. Anger and humiliation coil through my gut, ready to snap at the barest provocation. My muscles twitch, wanting to lash out, and my lungs burn with the urge to scream at this duplicitous bitch for sending me into a trap.

But despite that knowing smirk, it’s not Pamela who handles client relations. That’s the remit of our new office manager.

Holding my tongue, I storm past her, my heels clacking against the marble floor. I can feel her eyes burning into my back as I weave around the cubicles and head toward the corner office.

I should have known something was wrong. It didn’t make sense to pull me from a lucrative account like Bellavista only to send me to a strip club. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in cahoots with Bob Brisket.

If Terranova wants revenge so badly, why doesn’t he just fire me? Or is he making me suffer in Dad’s place? Curling my hands into fists, I tighten my abs, ready to confront the bastard who’s been pulling my strings.

As I near the corner office, Julian rises from his seat like a jack in the box. “Ginny?”

My spine stiffens. He’s been hovering close ever since that humiliating climax. Don’t think I didn’t notice that half-assed erection straining through his pants. My jaw clenches. I don’t have time to deal with his feelings, and I sure as hell don’t want to rehash the incident with the sex toy.

He grabs my arm, but I shrug him off without breaking my stride. “Not now.”

“This is important,” he whines, trailing after me like a lost dog.

I don’t turn around. If this is his attempt to explain that he didn’t steal Bellavista, he can save it. Terranova hasn’t been inthe firm long enough to gauge either of our abilities. We both know our boss handed the work to Julian out of spite.

Two of Terranova’s goons step in my path, standing like statues in front of the office door. The sight of their broad shoulders blocking my path is like gasoline on the flames of my fury.

“I need to see Mr. Terranova,” I say.

Neither of them budge. They stare down at me, their eyes cold and unblinking.

The muscles in my jaw tighten, and the frustration that’s been welling up in my gut since I reached the Meat Show boils over.

“Are you going to let me in?” I ask.

The larger of the pair smirks as if my situation is a joke.

“That client meeting was a set-up,” I snap. “You bastards sent me into a trap!”

The office falls into a dead silence, the open-plan space suddenly feeling too small, too crowded. Every head turns or rises from the cubicles, their eyes on me. Yesterday’s humiliation crashes over my ego in a wave, turning my anger into something sharper.

I’m about to cite a dozen sexual harassment statutes when Terranova’s voice sounds from behind the door. “Let her in.”

The goons exchange smirks, confirming my every suspicion. They probably all laughed about sending me to meet a sexual predator.

Heart pounding, I shove open the door, bracing myself to unleash a storm.

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