Page 5 of Stolen By the Mafia King
“And yet they have photographs of you in a white wedding dress, at the church, with the select guest list. And at the wedding breakfast. All they needed was to fake your signature on the certificate and find a reason, like say, an essential work meeting for David, that means he was following you on honeymoon on a later flight.” I have to give them credit, it’s a solid plan.
She closes her eyes and her face crumples as she sees how their scheme makes sense of everything that has happened today. The strange insistence on two wedding dresses. All the formality. That discreet ring.
“They knew about my escape. And fuck… My brother. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes when I left. He knew I was…” She chokes and tails off and tears spill down her cheeks silently.
Her own brother planned to murder her for a trifling million pounds. The urge to pull her into my arms and comfort her is almost overpowering. But although that’s what my heart wants, my rational mind knows she needs time to take in this new reality.
“You saved my life.” Wiping away her tears with her fingers, she shakes her head. “How did you even know?”
“I’ve made it my business to protect you, Jessa.” It feels good to admit that, small part of what I feel for her though it is.
Her brow creases with confusion. She doesn’t understand that I love her and will do whatever is needed to make her happy, but she will. In time.
We travel in silence for a while. Jessa kicks off her heels and curls on the seat, arms folded over and around her knees, mouth pressed to her wrists. She’s like a pangolin, winding into herself to attempt to protect that soft underbelly.
It’s too late.
“Where are we going?” she asks after a while, unfurling herself and slipping her shoes back on. She looks stronger except for her throat undulating as she swallows, and I can tell it takes effort to keep her voice level.
“My house.”
“Where’s that?”
“You can’t escape, sweetheart.” Because I know that’s what she’s thinking now she’s processed the situation. How she can get the most information from me to serve her purpose. “But it’s in the home counties.”
Her mouth flattens and she looks me up and down.
I take the opportunity to regard her too. It’s not like I’ve never looked my fill before, but forever wouldn’t be long enough. She has blonde hair that falls in soft waves as far as her nipples, the colours in it ranging from the brightest palest sunshine white-yellow to deep caramel, and everything in between. Her hair is utterly beautiful. I’ve been longing to plunge my hands into the silken strands, and wrap my fist in it as she rides me. Or as I fuck her from behind. To begin with. So many things to do. There’s nothing I don’t want from Jessa.
Her face is sweet and heart shaped, with a snub nose, a little cupid’s bow mouth with dusky pink lips, and eyes the blue of the sky before the dark of night. A blue so shadowed you’d think her eyes were black from a distance. I can’t get enough of looking at Jessa. Photographs or CCTV isn’t enough. I have to glimpse her for real.
You’d broadly call what I’ve been doing for the past three years stalking. I like to follow my girl. Keep her in sight. Support her until she comes into her majority, old enough to have her own money and her own choices and be out of her guardian brother’s clutches. Mature enough tochoose me.
She’s twenty-one in a few hours. Young, fresh and sweet, and, as I heard her prick of a brother boast to David Bree-Fogg, still a virgin.
Her virginity?
It’s forme. It’s her decision, but make no mistake, her first time is mine and so are all the others. I didn’t expect her brother to try to sell her off like she was a show pony.
That arsehole will pay for trying to take away my girl’s choices, and for forcing my hand.
I first saw Jessa three years ago, across the room of a party where I’d felt as out of place as usual. I climbed the ladder of power and wealth too fast and violently to be comfortable with my peers. A wary blonde young lioness, all lean angles, straight hair and blue eyes that took everything in. Clever, but awkward. On her own, nobody to laugh with or rely on.
I wanted her. The connection was quick and visceral, a tug from every part of my body towards her.
A snapped question to my PA and I’d known: Jessica Southwark was eighteen years old.
Fuck. I felt sordid wanting Jessa when she was two decades my junior. Dirty. But I couldn’t keep away. I had to know more. When I heard she was an orphan, daughter of two-bit mobsters who’d got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and been killed in a shootout, under her brother’s guardianship, all my protective instincts triggered. I resolved to care for her from afar until she was old enough. A few more years to make the age gap a little less filthy, and for her to be in charge of her life.
I intended to woo Jessa carefully, as softly as she deserves. I aimed to grow her love for me like a hothouse flower, tending her confidence into bloom, providing everything she wanted. I was going to allow her the space to be herself and recognise we’re perfect for each other.
Not kidnap her with only a few hours’ notice.
Her brother will pay for this. And fucking David Bree-Fogg too. I saw the angle of his arm disappearing beneath the table. He was dead the second I walked in and saw he was touching what is mine.
She’s not. Jessa is my queen. Mine, yes, but everyone will give her the respect due.
It’s a moment before I notice she’s staring at my chest like the sight compels her against her will. She tracks her gaze over the muscles of my six-pack, down to where my trouser waistband meets skin. Then up to my pectorals. Does she like the smattering of dark hair there, and trailing from my belly button downwards, I wonder, or should I have waxed it for her? I’d take a little pain if she liked my body better as a result.
