Captive Mafia Wife: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Twisted Mafia Kings) by Shanna Handel

Author:Shanna Handel [Handel, Shanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Freya

Returning to Norse Garden, I slip off my heels and flop onto my bed like I’ve just come home from a long night at the club.

Did I say Norse Garden?

Gah!

I mean here at Wee Inverness.

The place must be growing on me.

What’s even more dangerous?

The man is growing on me.

I wonder how long he’ll be okay with our sexcapades being what they are? He’s not a teen boy behind the bleachers. He’s a man. One day, he’s going to want real sex.

I’m not sure I’m there…

In school, I did things to look older and act older, and I wanted nothing more than for people to think I was older than I was.

But inside, I was still just a girl.

There was a teacher. One who was inappropriate with me, to put it delicately.

Now, it angers me.

Then, it just scared me.

He never did more than touch me under my bra, but the psychological damage was done.

I prayed for him to stop, but he didn’t. I graduated, lost my religion, and left the island.

But I never lost my virginity.

I am still determining when I will. I’ve tried. Of course, I’ve tried. Have you seen how gorgeous they grow men in Glasgow? Och! Try as I might, I can’t make myself cross that line.

Once a man is my husband, when I have a lifelong commitment from a man, I’ll have the blessing of the island, and then I hope I’ll be comfortable having intercourse.

That was my plan.

Then along comes Fredrick and his frisky tongue.

I might cross that line sooner than I thought. Last night at the club, if he had given in to me, I would have let him pop my wild Scottish cherry right there. But he knew it wasn’t the right moment.

That’s a man I respect. I mean, it would have been a hell of a way for a nearly thirty-year-old woman to lose it, but hey, how he wielded that riding crop—oh, mon Dieu!

I push the thought away, opting for a long soak in the tub to wash away the club. The dim light, the soft jazz music I’m playing in the background, the warm, sudsy water, the sound of the jet still pouring steaming water into the oversized soaker—it takes me back to that moment in the club, his hands on me, the look of control and dominance in his eyes.

My wrists cuffed to chains…

“Okay, mingey-boo, let’s think of something else!” Instead of reawakening all that arousal, I finish my soak and dry off with a warm, plush towel—whoever invented towel warmers was pure dead brilliant—then slip into my jammies and take out my tablet. I’m not allowed to contact people, but a few untraceable sites have been approved, their connection directly linked to the house’s Wi-Fi.

Tapping away with my long, pointy, silver-glitter fake nails, I pull up Christmas décor ideas. If I can’t have Christmas at Norse Garden this year, I will decorate this wee castle.

I go to sleep, dreaming of two-story-tall Christmas trees filling his grand foyer, miles

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