Page 22 of Mafia and Captive

He led me over to the bed again. “Take off the dress,” he commanded.

I took a shaky breath. “No. I’m not taking my clothes off in front of you.”

He smirked. “We’ll see. I plan for you to be naked in this room a lot, for you to be lying on my bed with your thighs spread wide open and waiting for me.”

As he spoke, he ran his fingers softly over the gash on my arm, making me flinch as his hand sent needles of adrenaline piercing through my body. Every touch from him brought him closer to taking me and brought me closer to losing myself. He was out for revenge.

“Take your dress off. Do it—now. It would be a shame to have to mark your pretty skin if you keep defying me. It would be much more fun to mark your tight pussy with my cum.”

My cheeks flushed bright crimson as I shook my head at him. My fiancé, or supposed-to-be-my-husband-by-now or whatever he wanted to call himself, referring so crudely to sex was mortifying and terrifying in equal measure. “You disgust me.”

My words had no effect on his plans. “You’re not wearing that dress to bed. Take. It. Off.”

He exhaled heavily when I didn’t start undressing. “Turn around,” he demanded. But my feet were frozen to the spot.

When I didn’t move, he walked behind me. Towering above me, I held my breath as I felt his hands graze over my shoulders, jerking at the sudden contact from his fingers. I wanted to scream at him not to touch me, but I knew it would do no good and it wouldn’t stop him.

He ran his fingertips down my neck and slowly unzipped my dress. I felt the cool air kiss my bare skin, the feeling starting at the base of my neck and spreading down the length of my spine as the back of my dress gradually fell open. He took his time, drawing out my torment and undoing me further.

I shivered. Maybe I should have just taken off the dress myself. That way I wouldn’t have had to feel his hands on me now.

The dress pooled at my feet. “Step out of it,” he ordered, as he held his hand out to me.

I looked warily at him, unable to reach out to the hand which would hurt me. Ignoring him, I instead wrapped my arms around myself, stepping over the heaped fabric of the dress.

I was left standing in my wedding lingerie—a matching white lacy bra, panties, and garter. I wished now that I hadn’t let my mother insist on these sexy items and had instead gone with my first choice of something plain and more substantial.

He ran his gaze over me in an assessing stare before he raised his hand to me again.

I recoiled from his impending touch, automatically retreating a step out of his reach.

But he snarled and stalked toward me, taking a step forward with every step I took back until my back painfully met the hard wall, a small cry escaping my tight throat.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you…yet.”

Time appeared to stand still, lengthening my dread. “Yet?”

I was trapped between the wall and his hard body. His hand reached down toward my panties. I bit my lip to stop a scream from escaping.

I felt his cool fingers skim over the lace of my panties and touch my thigh. Everything seemed to go into slow motion.

He ran his fingertips along my upper legs, stroking the softest part of my thighs between my legs, letting his touch linger, before roughly tugging down my garter and letting it fall to the floor.

I swallowed hard and I risked a look up at him to find that he was undressing.

He removed his gun holster first, laying it on top of the dresser. Undoing the top couple of his shirt buttons, he pulled it over his head and tossed it onto the armchair that I had been sitting on before. His arms were pure muscle and led up to powerful shoulders. His torso was toned, while his tanned olive skin was dusted with dark hair and scattered with scars from old injuries. It was clear that his body was ruthlessly fit and a deadly weapon.

I looked at the tattoos covering his back and one arm. These had been completely covered when he had worn a long-sleeved dress shirt. There was also a tattoo at the top of his left shoulder, depicting what I knew to be the symbol of the Fratellanza—a knife piercing a hand.

He kicked off his shoes and moved on to his dress pants, unzipping them and pulling them down to reveal strong, muscular thighs.

I couldn’t stop myself from watching him. I felt a sheen of cold sweat between my breasts at the thought of how this man would punish me for the Società’s wrongs. He was a killer and a murderer, and he would have no qualms about hurting me on what should have been our wedding night.

He stepped out of his pants and was left in only his boxer briefs, and as he turned around to throw his pants onto the armchair to join his shirt, I couldn’t stop the panic rising up my body. It propelled my legs to run for the door again.

But he was too quick for me. Catching me, he wrapped his solid arm around the back of my legs and hauled me over his shoulder with a grunt, flipping me over his shoulder so swiftly that I felt the air whooshing out of my lungs as my torso slammed against his back.

I was drowning in his strength. He was stealing the oxygen from my lungs, the fight from my body, the sanity from my soul.

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