Page 11 of Captive Mafia Wife

It feels so sexy, so sultry. I’m Freya, the goddess of beauty and debauchery, and this, THIS, is MY All Hallows Eve, and if he wants to worship at the throne of Freya, who am I to stop him?

So, I step out of my panties, but the elastic gets caught in a heel, my new-found sexual confidence momentarily failing me. But he’s so smooth, so experienced, he circles a firm hand around my ankle, over my boot, then gently untangles the black lace.

Sliding them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

Before I can protest his theft, he’s back where he doesn’t belong, hands pushing up my dress, his hot mouth on me. My body says otherwise and insists he’s right where he should be.

I run my hands through his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through my fingers, wondering if his excellent hair genetics would pass down to his offspring as I tug gently inresponse to each flick of his tongue, waves of pleasure cascading through my body.

I’m moaning softly with each new surge of ecstasy.

I can feel myself growing closer and closer to the edge, my breath coming in ragged gasps in my struggle to maintain control. But it is a losing battle, and soon, I can’t hold back any longer. My fingers tangle in his hair; it really is as thick and luxurious as it looks.

I’ve lost all power, all control. He’s won. And I don’t care. I let go. “Fredrick! Oh, God, Fredrick.” Crying out his name.

I come hard against his mouth.

Even though I've climaxed, he gently teases me while he continues to suck and nibble on my sensitive spots. I try to push him away. “I can’t take anymore…”

But he refuses my protests, murmuring against me, “Yes, you can.”

And he slides his finger inside me.

The aftershocks of pleasure continue to ripple through me, each one more intense than the last as he works his tongue against me, his finger moving in me. I can feel my heartbeat pulsing in my ears and hear the rhythmic sound of my ragged breath.

I lean in closer to him, tugging his hair and pulling him even more firmly against me as he draws a second orgasm from me, this one more powerful than the last.

I stand there, mouth gaping, knees quaking, boots shaking, in disbelief at what’s just happened, what I’ve let him do, what he’s done to me, and how my body feels like the warm,delicious center of a gooey cinnamon roll pulled out of the oven moments too soon.

I stare down at him, wondering where things go from here.

Slowly, he pulls my dress down, smoothing it back into place. Stands in front of me.

“My—my panties.”

Taking them from his suit jacket, he lays the panties in my open palm.

He brushes a chaste kiss against my cheek, his lips soft, the stubble of his chin rough, the smell of cedarwood mingled with… me. To my shame and pleasure, my intimate scent swirls around us.

He pulls away.

And leaves.

Quietly closing the door behind him.

The panties drop from my hand. My mouth gapes.

What in Scotland’s Highland Hills just happened?

I zip down a boot, rip it from my foot, and in my frustrated confusion toss it—lightly—I mean, it’s a Saint Laurent after all—at the closed door after him, telling him all I should have said the moment he stepped into this room. “Nyaff! Get out, stay out, and never come back!”

I’m speaking to myself. In an empty room. Every nerve ending in my body is still tingling with pleasure from him. It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. I can still smell his intoxicating scent, feel his warm, strong hands on my hips, the hot lash of his tongue flickering between my thighs. The worst part?

I want more.

Chapter Four

Fredrick

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