Page 45 of Captive Mafia Wife

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’sgoing 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 of fresh greenery lit with white and tied with red velvet, bringing the fragrance of fresh fir into the holiday-scented air.

I wake, ready to pounce on Fredrick, tell him what we’ll collectively be working on today.

Dressed in emerald-green tights, a green-and-gold dress, and gold gift box replica earrings clipped to my lobes, I prancedown the stairs in platform knee-high velvet boots, declaring, “It’s Christmas!”

Fredrick is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He wears a charcoal-gray V-neck sweater and black pants, and one arm rests on the wide, solid wood railing.

His thick dark hair is swept back, and a silver watch is on his wrist. I’m getting MAJOR hot dad vibes from him, and I love it.

He stares up at me, really leaning into the role with a stern daddy look on his handsome face. “It’s December first,” he corrects. “It’s not Christmas yet.”

“It’s Christmas-TIME,” I correct him back. “Just as worthy of being celebrated.”

This brings a grin to his handsome face. He reaches up, cupping my face, his silver watch glinting under the lights. “Ma chérie, anything to see your beautiful smile.”

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