Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

“Strip.”

The command slices through my nightmare, jolting me awake. My eyes snap open, locking onto the visor of my stalker.

My heart slams against my chest. How the hell did he find me at Martina’s apartment? I went straight there from work after Mom told me she’d be out all night with Bossanova, advising me not to wait up. Moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating his imposing form. It might be my imagination, but tonight he seems even more menacing.

“What do you want?” I whisper, trying to stop my voice from trembling.

He yanks off the comforter, leaving me exposed to the cool air. The neckline of my nightgown gapes open, baring my breasts, and the hem has ridden up to my waist. Tension coils around my throat. I may as well be naked. I thought changing locations would solve my problems, but it’s backfired.

“Take off that Scrooge nightshirt and get naked,” he hisses.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and a flush spreads down my neck. I would tell him this isn’t my usual night attire, but why the hell do I need to impress a stalker?

When I don’t immediately comply, he pulls out the knife. The light streaming through the window glints on its blade, sparking a surge of unwanted arousal. I didn’t escape one abuser to succumb to another.

My pussy clenches, already flooding with moisture. If I don’t resist, this man will turn me into a no-limits degradation slut. Before I know it, I’ll start begging him to do worse.

“No,” I reply.

He tilts his head, which would look comical if the movement wasn’t accompanied by his knife slicing down the front of my nightshirt.

“What did you say, little Ginny?”

I grind my teeth, trying to stop them from chattering. “You heard me. I refuse to play your games.”

He laughs through that infernal helmet with so much dark amusement that his chest heaves. I can’t tell if he’s bulky or thin beneath all that armor. All I’ve seen of him is that humongous cock.

“Very well.” He withdraws the knife.

My stomach flips, and my heart sinks a little at this anticlimax. Maybe Martina was right and it really is as easy as saying no. Or maybe this is the calm before the meltdown. I stiffen, waiting for him to yank my hair by the roots, slap me across the face, or bully me into submission, but he slides the knife back into a holster on his thigh.

Every instinct itches to ask why he’s given up so easily, but I clamp my mouth shut. This is what I want, isn’t it? For my stalker to leave me the hell alone.

Turning his back, he retreats toward the door and places his gloved fingers on its handle. I lean forward, my pulse fluttering.

Is that all?

A small, treacherous part of me doesn’t want him to leave. That dark kernel of my psyche aches for the stalker to persist. It’s the same part that still stings from being perpetually rejected—first by a fiancé who placed me on an impossible pedestal, then by another who made me feel unworthy.

Not to mention Benito brushing off me yesterday like I was insignificant.

I lower my head, loathing myself for this pathetic longing. It’s pitiful to want to feel desired, even if it’s by a weapon-wielding maniac who revels in my degradation.

“Let’s see the color of Martina’s blood,” he growls.

Cold shock punches me in the gut, making me scramble off the bed. I race across the room and grab his arm. Up close, he’s imposing. Broader than both my former fiancés. At the thought of Benito’s cold dismissal, I pluck up the courage to press my body against his side.

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 watch my degradation laughed and agreed, making me feel lower than shit.noveldrama

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’re halfway 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.

Heat floods my veins, and my mind spirals. Body moving on autopilot, I crawl to the hideous object. Wrapping my fingers around the tip, I drag myself back to my stalker.

My gaze fixes on the misshapen crotch of his armor. He’s getting off on my degradation, and there isn’t a thing I can do to stop him. The moment I object, he’ll threaten Martina.

With a rough grip on my shoulders, he forces me to turn. The air shifts as he moves closer to my ass and kicks my legs apart. Cool air swirls around my most intimate flesh, making me shiver. When he rubs the metal tip against my pussy, I have to swallow back a moan.

“Who needs lube when you’re so soaked?” he says with a dry chuckle. “My eager little slut.”

Cringing in place, I pant hard, letting the tip of that infernal plug graze my swollen clit. What the fuck is wrong with me? I hate this, but my body can’t get enough.

“That’s my dirty girl. Always slippery, always wet.”

For the next several minutes, he teases every contour of my pussy, dragging me to the edge with filthy praise that ignites both shame and desire. My breath quickens. My thighs tremble. My heart wants to smash its way through its cage and hide in the bathroom. This torture is exquisite.

Tears stream down my cheeks as he brings the butt plug to my anus. I turn around, pleading with him to at least use a toy without this ridiculous tail.

I want to tell him I’m a nice girl. From a good family. Who stayed a virgin until my second engagement. But all my attempts to communicate fail through the panties stuffed down my throat.

“You think you’re a good girl?” he asks as though reading my thoughts. “Your purity is only a facade. Degradation is your kink. Humiliation is your vice. You crave the powerlessness, yearn for the pain. And I plan on drawing out this sweet torture until you admit you’re mine.”

He’s wrong. I would never belong to such a depraved creature. But as he pushes that metal toy through my tight ring of muscle, we both groan loud enough to wake Martina.

The plug slides into my anus, stretching its walls, making every nerve ending come alight with fire. He takes his time, drawing out the torture until my pussy clenches with hunger. It’s lonely, empty, wanting his fingers, craving his cock.

“Pretty little kitten loves her tail,” he says with a chuckle.

My heart twists, bleeding out the final dregs of my pride. Despite my body’s betrayal, I can’t deny the truth. I loathe myself for how I’m reacting, for how every nerve sparks with shameful pleasure.

When the plug is in place, he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me up to sitting. Pain lances through my scalp, making me wince.

My eyes are still closed when a headband slides through my hair. From the weight of it, I can tell there’s something attached to the plastic. I reach up, finding fluffy ears.

I bite down on the sodden panties, my nostrils flaring. All I need is a pair of furry paws, and this masked motherfucker will turn me into a catgirl.

Shaking my head, I yank off the headband and toss it across the floor. This is where I draw the line.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he snarls. “Because bad little kittens get punished.”