ISABELLA POV
Inside the luxurious confines of the car, my husband, Nicolo Ricci, exuded an air of authority as the King of the Italian mafia. The frosty atmosphere seemed to seep into my bones, leaving me shivering until a warm hand, adorned with cold rings, began to sensually rub my left thigh.
''I'll make you warm, princess,'' Nicolo whispered, his touch casting a spell that painted me in hues of warmth and desire.
Encouraging me to get closer, he suggested, ''Come sit on my lap instead, darling.'' As I unfastened my seat belt and positioned myself on his lap, he discreetly closed the inside windows, creating an intimate cocoon shielded from prying eyes and ears.
On Nicolo's lap, his grip tightened possessively, a subtle reminder of his dominance. Attempting to find comfort, I shifted, only to be met with a low groan and an even firmer hold, thwarting my movements.
''Don't you feel what you do to me, honey?'' he murmured, alluding to an undeniable tension beneath me, adding an undercurrent of passion to the chilly evening. The clandestine embrace within the car became a canvas for the intricate dance of warmth, power, and desire, painting a picture of intensity in the heart of the mafia's domain.
