19. Blake

CHAPTER 19

Blake

Y ve’s been more of a pain in the ass then usual today, so I say fuck it and head home early, which is out of character for me. My workaholic reputation’s sure to suffer from this decision. Not like I care–fuck it. My singular focus on the ride home is the alluring woman I left in my bed this morning.

I find Gin lounging by the rooftop pool. My mouth goes dry as I take her in. That thin scrap of fabric can hardly be called a swimsuit.

My gaze travels the area. If anyone sees her voluptuous body this scantily clad, I'll have no choice but to pluck out their eyeballs. Finding no one in the vicinity, I return my attention to her and prowl closer.

She shields her eyes against the bright summer sunlight. "Oh, it's you," she says cheerily.

"Obviously." Involuntarily, I rake my gaze over her hourglass curves. "The time has come. We'll be officially announcing our engagement at your sister's wedding this weekend."

"Whatever you say." She beams at me with the fakest smile I've ever seen. I’m getting better at determining her moods, and right now she’s not as happy as she appears. The difference between fake-happy Gin, and genuinely-happy Gin is like night and day. One is a dark rain cloud on an otherwise clear day, completely out of place, and the other is like the sun itself shining down in all its glory.

"Whatever I say, huh?" I point toward the house. "Then get your ass inside and put on some real clothes before someone else sees you up here.”

Her expression sobers. However, the wicked glint in her eyes should be enough forewarning. Reaching behind her back, she tugs on the string and her entire top falls in her lap, putting her luscious breasts on full display. My palms itch with the desire to cup them. They would make a nice handful.

Then, like a cat, she stretches, all the while keeping her gaze trained on me. Defiance radiates from her in waves.

Ginevra Pontrelli is a brat. She knows it. I know it.

What she doesn’t know, yet, is that brats get punished.

Dropping into the chair beside hers, I drag her across my lap. Her surprised squeak warms my insides, egging me on.

“Disobedient girls get punished, Gin.” I smack her scantily clad ass. Once. I want to see how she’ll react. She might not be ready for this side of me yet–or ever. Not all women share my cravings, my fantasies.

She jerks in my hold, then grows still. I slap her other butt cheek, then smooth the burn away with my rough palm. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t try to get away. Her silence speaks volumes… if I’m reading her correctly.

I spank her more thoroughly, each strike measured, and followed up with kneading her hot, reddening flesh. She squirms beneath my touch.

“I’ve warned you before,” I growl. “Good girls get rewarded and naughty girls get spanked. You’ve been a naughty girl lounging up here where others might see your gorgeous body. This body’s mine. No one else’s. But you don’t seem to understand that yet.”

My hand dips between her thighs, finding the swimsuit material soaked from her wetness. Tentatively, I slip two fingers beneath the fabric. She’s so fucking slippery, so wet and ready. My dick swells, growing hard against her stomach. But I don’t push her further, not yet, not until I know if she’s going to clam up, or worse—spiral.

So far, I haven’t figured out what exactly triggers her into a panic attack.

She rocks her body in my lap, grinding against my erection and chasing my fingers with her cunt. She arches her back and I slide one finger into her tight pussy, then the other. I’ve tasted her—once—which is not nearly enough to satiate my appetite. She moans as I finger-fuck her perfect pink cunt.

Then she surprises me by reaching beneath her and unfastening my trousers. Gin wraps her fingers around my thick cock, matching my rhythm, and I groan. Fuck yes . I need this. My hips jerk, demanding more. She squeezes me tighter and my eyes roll back in my head.

I leave her greedy pussy and smack her ass again. And again. Each of her small gasps drives me wild. When I sink my fingers back into her, she’s dripping wet. She shudders out a moan.

My little magpie likes to be spanked. Good girl. Perfect girl.

When my thumb finds her clit, I barely touch her before she orgasms. Her entire body tenses up, then shakes as she comes on my hand. She’s hardly come down from her high when she adjusts on my lap, taking my cock into her hot, wet mouth.

Fuck me . I groan as she sucks me down, choking herself on my length. Another wave of pleasure rolls through her and her pussy clenches my fingers like a vise.

Fuck . She just came again from sucking on my dick.

It’s enough to send me over the edge. I grunt, shooting ropes of cum down her throat as my hand tangles in her hair.

I pull her up and crush my lips to hers. Plunging my tongue into her mouth, I taste myself, as well as… vodka. Vanilla vodka. Shit . I should have known she was too eager, but… this morning she touched me and she wasn’t drunk. I thought maybe… I obviously thought wrong.

Sitting back, I take her by the arms and put some distance between us. I can’t tell if her eyes are glassy from lust or alcohol. I’m too pissed off to try to make the distinction.

“You’re drunk,” I accuse.

Her expression shutters. “No I’m not.”

“You’ve been drinking. I can taste it. I can smell it too.”

“Just a couple of drinks… earlier.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“So?”

“So. Earlier would have been in the morning.” I eye her. “Are you an alcoholic?”

“Why are you so obsessed with how much and when I drink booze?” She squirms, trying to get off my lap, but I keep her in place. I’m not done with her yet.

“I’ve told you before, I won’t touch you when you’re drunk.” Finally, I let her go.

She stands up, covering her tits with her hands. “I already told you I’m not drunk.”

“And I think you’re a liar,” I snarl.

“Fuck you!” She chokes on a sob as she runs into the house.

Angrily, I tuck my dick away and glower at the swimming pool like it’s the water’s fault that everything just went to shit.

I should go after her. Apologize.

No, I shouldn’t.

I should.

Damn it. I stand up so forcefully that the chair legs scrape against the patio as it slides backwards. With measured steps, I go look for her inside.

Why do I care if she’s intoxicated or not? This thing between us is temporary, so why should I give a fuck about the details? Her pussy should be more important to me than her state of mind. Yet… when I take her body, I want all of her to know it’s me she’s with, without a doubt. I want every part of her involved when I fuck her—her body, her mind, even her goddamn soul.

Pure possessiveness courses through my blood, it clenches my chest and settles in my gut.

Ginevra’s mine . I won’t share her with anyone or anything—not even that damn vanilla vodka. Nor the ghosts of her past. I want all of her for myself.

“Gin, are you in here?” I open her closet door. Her discarded bathing suit rests on the floor. So she was here. Where did she go?

“Mr. Baron,” Fleur, my housekeeper, appears in the doorway. “Miss Ginevra left. She took a Lyft, just now.”

“ Shit. ” I bolt from the closet and make my way out the front door in record time, but I’m too late to see which direction she went.

No matter, I’ll catch up to her soon enough. This isn’t the first time she’s done this disappearing act and I did what I had to do in response. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I pull up the information from the tracking device I planted in her purse. For good measure, I had one sewn into all of her purses. She owns quite a few and she never goes out without one.

I watch the dot move across the screen—a map of New York City. When it stops I zoom in to find the address of her location.

Got you, little magpie.

W hen I pull the car up to the address, I’m more than a bit confused. It’s a building full of storage units. You need a code to get in, so after I park I have to wait for someone to exit and catch the door before it closes.

Inside there are three levels of long concrete and steel corridors with units on either side. I start on the main level and work my way up until I find a half open roll-up door. The first two I came across were clearly people moving boxes in and out. But this one’s closed except for about a foot of space at the bottom. Light and soft music spill into the hallway.

This must be her secret den. Does she bring men here?

The very idea has me burning with rage. If she has a man in there, I’ll fucking kill him and ask questions later. Her little ten by ten will become a murder scene. I did warn her not to cheat.

I grip the bottom of the door and shove it up. The metal on metal roars as it glides open, then suddenly stops with a bang and a shudder. What I find inside is not at all what I expected. It looks like a teenager vomited all over this space.

Gin sits, wide-eyed, on a plush pink bean-bag surrounded by stuffed animals, sticker-adorned furniture, and boy band posters attached to the metal walls with duct tape.

What in the actual fuck?

“What are you doing here?” She stares at me, panicked.

“I followed you,” I say absently, taking in every bit of this scene. “What is this place? Besides hell on earth,” I mutter.

Gin stands up, holding a long stuffed snake around her shoulders like it’s a fur wrap. “This isn’t hell on earth. This is my place.” She offers me a watery smile.

My gaze snaps to her. “What do you mean?”

A blush creeps up her neck and she glances down, clearly embarrassed. “When I was thirteen, my parents decided it was time for me to grow up and have an adult bedroom, so this is where they put all of my stuff.” She softly adds, “I come here when I’m feeling sad.”

I assess the storage unit again, with a fresh perspective. This is Gin’s childhood. Every piece of it is crammed in here. Every piece is a part of her and her past.

The back of my neck prickles with anger. This isn’t right. These things shouldn’t be locked up away from her if she still wants them. And she obviously takes comfort in having all of this stuff around or she’d get rid of it.

Nostalgia’s a stronger motivator than most people realize. Some of us crave our connection to the past. Some of us will do anything to hold onto it.

Tomorrow I’ll have all of this moved into the house. One of the guest rooms should be large enough to hold it all without being cramped like this small space. Ginevra shouldn’t be coming to a storage unit in order to feel happiness. She should have that in her own home.

“Can you please leave,” she mumbles, clinging to her stuffed snake. She looks so young, so innocent right now that guilt slithers through my gut. Less than an hour ago I did naughty things to this woman who is really just a girl.

I nod. “As you wish.”

The relief I feel in knowing that she hasn’t been running off to see a lover is palpable. I’d have been less surprised by that than this, but now I don’t have to murder anyone in cold blood. At least not tonight.

As wrong as it may be, Ginevra’s mine, and I want all of her, even her childhood dreams, in my home.