Virgin
By
Shanna Handel
Copyright © 2019 by Stormy Night Publications and Shanna Handel
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Handel, Shanna
Virgin
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Dreamstime/Inara Prusakova and Shutterstock/A_Lesik
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
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Shanna Handel Links
Chapter One
Adrianna
I’m twenty-five years old and I’ve never been kissed.
You’d think I was a troll living under a bridge.
I’m not. Though I might eventually turn into one.
I’m told I’m beautiful. Smart enough to hold an intelligent debate. I think I might even be funny—at least I make my cousins laugh. I donate to charity, sing on key, and always let people with fewer items go before me at the checkout.
I’m a catch.
Right?
According to my virgin status, apparently, I’m not worth the work it takes to get to me.
I’m a never been touched, never even been kissed, virgin.
It’s not because I haven’t any interest in dating. I have plenty—the proof is sitting on the shelves of my overwhelmed bookcase, the boards straining beneath the weight of my vast collection of romance novels. I even started taking the pill a year ago, just in case the stars align as I’m walking down the beach alone under the moonlight and some stranger were to randomly sweep me off my feet.
Which would never actually happen considering the constant supervision I’m under.
I’m untouchable. Literally. Rapunzel had a better chance of getting a man, locked in that tall stone tower of hers.
Who’s to blame?
My overprotective, over-involved male family members. They’ve been beaver blocking me since my sixteenth birthday. Any interested man who even looks my way gets a death glare from one of my broad-shouldered, heavily armed relatives. One deep clearing from my cousins’ throats and the suitors scatter.
So far, everyone has heeded the warning and gone about their way. As they probably should—my cousins are dangerous men. But where does that leave me? Destined to die alone? A ninety-year-old woman lying on my death bed, wondering what it feels like to be kissed?
Perhaps I should just give up.
Realize I don’t stand a chance and join a convent. Become a nun like my Italian Catholic great-aunt. The very idea has tears springing to my eyes. Because that life is—so—not—me. I long to be loved. To feel pleasure. To have a man’s strong hands stroke me in the most intimate way. Have his hard, throbbing—
“Adrianna!”
I startle from my thoughts, falling off the daybed situated in the picture window overlooking the Aegean Sea, and tumble to the floor. This window is my favorite place to daydream, but now I’ve found myself so far in my fantasies I’ve lost track of time. Again.
Sasha is standing in my doorway, hands on her hips, her long dark ponytail swishing back and forth as she shakes her head disapprovingly at me. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to be packing.”
“I’m coming!” I call out, pulling myself up from the floor and brushing off my clothing. I should have been finished hours ago and once again I’ve wasted too much time fantasizing about love instead of focusing on the task at hand. I begin tearing through the drawers of my dresser, throwing blouses, skirts, sweaters into the opened trunk that sits at the foot of my bed.
“Here, let me help you.” Sasha storms into the room and starts taking down garments from my closet. Her toned body stretches up on tiptoe as she pulls down handfuls of hangers. She’s folding great piles of clothing neatly in half and sliding them into the trunk. She tosses me an exasperated glance. “You’re going to be late.”
“The story of my life,” I groan. I make my way over to my dressing table and take a seat in the plush velvet chair. I open the drawer, sorting through my makeup. I leave her to the clothes and focus on packing my beauty supplies and jewelry. I fill my gold sparkly makeup bag to the brim then give the zipper a good hard tug. Finished with the task, I shut the drawer. “When am I not late?”
“Well, it didn’t matter much, before. But now you’re keeping Dante waiting.” Her dark eyes lock on mine and her brows raise. “And if I were you... I wouldn’t.”
“Dante can wait. He has no jurisdiction over me.” My tone is confident but inside I’m thinking about the way he locks his chiseled jaw when he’s displeased, and nervous butterflies take flight in my stomach.
Sasha moves from the closet, joining me. She puts a hand on my shoulder, her eyes catching mine in the reflection of the mirror above the dressing table. We could be sisters with our dark hair and olive complexions—hers thanks to her Greek heritage, mine from my Italian ancestors. She gives me a long, hard look. “Adrianna. Dante’s never been tolerant of tardiness, and now he’s a lead Bachman—about to be the third in charge. You know better than to disregard him like this. These men don’t get into power by waiting around for people. They demand respect and you know exactly how you’ll be handled if you don’t show it.” She turns and leaves me, heading over to my shoe collection.
A flush creeps into my cheeks at her insinuation. The thought of Dante ‘handling’ me makes a queer lightheaded feeling cloud my mind. My fingers wrap around the dangling chain of a necklace I’m leaving behind. I arrange my face into a mask of confidence and turn over my shoulder to disagree with her. “Just because the husbands in this family spank their wives does not mean that Dante will be laying a finger on me. Rockland would kill him.”
She’s kneeling on the floor, rifling through sandals. She raises her perfectly manicured brows—the ones I’ve recently waxed for her—and says, “Are you sure about that?” Something in her gaze, or perhaps that smug little smile crossing her pretty face, has me second-guessing my statement. My mind turns over her simple question and that look on her face—it has my insides growing cold. The little hairs stand up on the back of my neck and over the goosebumps of my arms.
I stare at her. “Sasha. Is there something you know that I don’t?”
She gives a noncommittal shrug. Goes to the second closet, turns her back to me, and starts sorting through my boots. She changes the subject. “You know, you could have been packing for days. You’ve known about this trip for months.”
“I’ve been busy.” I stand from the dressing table, makeup bag in hand, and go to my bookshelf, running my fingertips gently over their worn spines.
“Doing what? Painting your nails? Daydreaming? Reading those smutty books you love so much?” She tosses me a look that makes my hand drop to my side. “You can’t take them all, you know.”
“I guess I have been a little distracted.” I cross the room and toss the makeup bag on the desktop, exchanging it for my latest read. My fingers wrap around the book a
nd I bring it closer. My eyes devour the cover, that delicious shiver running through my core at the sight of the buff, in-charge man on the glossy front. I run my finger over his bare chest. Grabbing my purse from the hook beside the desk, I carefully bury my latest book boyfriend in the bottom of the bag.
Sasha’s lecture continues. “You’ve known this day would come for three whole years now. Brett Bachman’s third and final annual memorial service after his death is a huge deal and the family’s been planning it practically since the day they laid him to rest. The one where you and all of your many, many family members will travel to Radio City Music Hall in New York and have one big happy reunion. It’s not exactly something that could have slipped your mind.”
“I know. I know. I guess it’s just the part after that that I’ve been so overwhelmed by. And you know what I do when I’m overwhelmed...”
“Procrastinate?”
“Exactly.”
She stops going through the shoes and sits down on the daybed. She pats the seat beside her. “Come here.”
I grab the makeup bag, tossing it into the trunk as I cross the room. Reaching the daybed, I plop down beside her, my heavy purse bumping against my thigh as I do.
She throws her arm around my shoulder like a big sister might. “You want to move to New York, Adrianna. It’s your dream. You’re just experiencing some very normal nerves. You’re going to love America and the Village. Trust me. If Carter and I weren’t trying to hatch a little one,” she pats her flat stomach, “I’d still be there.”
I groan and roll my eyes. “Oh, yeah, just the image this frustrated virgin needs right now. You and your workout-obsessed husband, now even more gorgeous with that sexy tattoo all over his stone-hard chest, spending all your hours trying to procreate.”
She laughs, blushing prettily. “It has been fun. I’m going to have to go double time just to fill up the hours when you leave. I need something to keep from missing you when you move.”
Her words make a sad tug tear in my chest, and only heighten my nerves about leaving. I nudge her in the ribs. “I’m going to miss you, too. The Parish has become my home, and the weather here in Greece—it’s so beautiful. But I’m excited to be with Rockland and Tess and have one of those fantastic row homes all to myself. And the nightlife in the big city! The clubs, the restaurants... the shopping.”
She lets out a long moan. “The shopping. God, how I miss the shopping.” We laugh.
The Parish, where we currently reside, is an island off the coast of Greece. And only members of the secret mafia Bachman family know of its existence. Needless to say, there isn’t a mall in sight. And no place for a twenty-five-year-old virgin to get laid. In New York, I might actually stand a chance of having a boyfriend.
Sasha looks at her watch, hopping up from the daybed. “Oh, shit, look at the time! We’ve got to get you out of here. Speaking of shopping, just forget the rest of the stuff we didn’t pack. You can buy anything your heart desires when you get there. Let’s get this thing closed and get you on your way.”
“Getting that thing closed is going to be impossible.” I move to the trunk, helping her to latch the metal buckles. Satisfied with our work, we sit on top of the vessel and share a final hug.
She pulls away, her hands resting on my shoulders as she locks our gazes. “My flight goes out only one hour after yours. I’ll be right behind you.”
I kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Sasha. For everything.”
Hand in hand we leave my room. I give it one final glance, then take a deep breath, assuring myself I’m ready for this monumental move.
I leave Sasha to finish her own packing. I take my time saying goodbyes to the ones who won’t be joining us in New York. I take one last stroll down the beautiful beach, unsure of when I’ll be back here next. Realizing the time is passing too quickly, I make my way toward the jet.
Lost in thought, I’m surprised to find I’ve walked all the way to the family tarmac. Now I’m making my way up the stairs of the family aircraft. This is only my second time flying, the first when Rockland sent the jet to pick me up from our remote village in Italy. The plane has rows of seats on either side, two wide, and a long aisle running down the center. I’m trying to find an empty spot amongst the single men, the brothers of the brotherhood, who are headed to the Village with us. A few openly smile at me. Others ignore me.
Near the back of the plane, I find a row that’s empty on both sides. Four seats total and little privacy—just what I need on this long flight. I plop down in the cushy window seat, gathering my overflowing purse on my lap.
My gaze rises to the aisle of the aircraft to find an angry Dante storming his way toward me. Instinctively my buttocks tighten beneath me at the sight of his stormy eyes and clenched jaw.
He strides down the aisle, straight to me. Standing what looks to be about six foot two. Rippling muscles. Black short-sleeve tee-shirt with the brothers’ tattoo peeking out and winding around his giant bicep. Shaved head, clean-shaven face, and startling green, gemstone eyes.
He’s quite intimidating.
My stomach twists in knots as I find him hovering over the empty seat beside me. His eyes are burning into mine, his disapproving scowl makes my cheeks burn. I find my gaze dropping to my lap.
Please don’t sit here. Please don’t sit here.
He unceremoniously drops his giant body into the seat beside me. He growls, “You’re late.”
Before I can answer, he’s yanking the strap of his black bag from his massive shoulder. He slams it onto his lap, tugs at the zipper. From the bag he pulls a notebook with a brown leather cover. There are pens neatly arranged in the front pocket of the bag, and after careful consideration, he chooses a black ink fountain-tipped pen. Opening the cover, he begins scribbling furiously onto the pages.
“What are you doing?” I ask, peering over his shoulder and trying to get a look at the words he writes.
He shoots me a look that makes my heart beat harder in my chest. I back away toward the window. He pulls the notebook toward his chest. “Nosy, and late. Tsk tsk.”
I want to roll my eyes but something in the set of his stone jaw tells me it’s not my best idea. So instead, I play nice. “Journaling?”
“If you must know, I’m channeling my anger.”
“What anger?” I open my purse, rooting through my belongings for my lip gloss.
“The infuriation I feel when a frivolous little girl keeps me waiting—keeps the brotherhood waiting—and delays our flight. Our plane should have arrived an hour before the other, now it will be late. Thus putting the entire itinerary off course.”
I finally find the gloss. I twist the cap and slide the pink shimmer over my lips. I casually throw it back into my bag and flash him a smile. “Oh. So... anger at me?”
“Ding ding. She’s got the correct answer, folks. What’s her prize?” He slaps the cover of his journal shut and stuffs it back into his bag. Slides the pen into the correct pocket. He crosses his massive arms over his chest and leans his head back, sighing. “This is going to be a long flight.”
“You’re telling me.” Nothing like a cross-the-globe jaunt seated next to Mr. Grumpy-pants. He’s so huge even in the enormous plush leather seats of our private jets, I’ve got no elbow room. His big, round shoulder is pressed into my arm and I can feel the heat radiate from his body. Smell his scent—which is actually quite pleasant. Clean and crisp. I might even enjoy the feeling but not from someone so outwardly hostile toward me. He’s too close. I shove my elbow into his massive forearm. “A little space, please?”
He shoots me a glare. “Keep your hands to yourself and I’ll keep my hands to myself. If I can manage. A man only has so much tolerance before—”
I know what he’s insinuating and I’m putting a stop to it. “Touch me and you’re dead. Rockland would kill you. Or have you forgotten that I happen to be the baby, and only girl, slash, favorite cousin of the head of the family? We grew up together. He’s practically my big br
other.”
Dante’s eyes catch mine. My insides feel funny, my knees a bit weak as his emerald eyes light from within. A smile stretches out over his face and my breath catches in my throat—it’s not a friendly smile. It’s a dangerous one. His words numb my mind as he tosses them out to me. “Who the hell do you think asked me to accompany your flighty little ass to the Village in the first place?”
His smile deepens as, to his pleasure, he watches the recognition cross my face as I realize that the man who I thought would protect me from this brute was the very same one who had ordered Dante to be by my side now.
Thanks a lot, Rockland.
My fingers tighten around the handles of my purse. I hiss between clenched teeth, “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m surrounded by the brotherhood. The entire family is going to be in New York. What on Earth would I need you for?”
“To keep you out of trouble. As of right now, I’m not to let you out of my sight for a second. Rockland’s orders.”
My stomach drops. Rockland has ordered me a babysitter. And of all the men available, he chose the most severe one possible. I sigh, slumping down in my seat. My heart feels heavy in my chest. All plans of losing my virginity melt right out of my mind. Disappointment fills me. I’m never going to find myself an eligible bachelor with this refrigerator around, being massive and watching my every move with his glaring eyes. “Are you sure there hasn’t been some kind of mistake? A simple miscommunication?”
His brow knits as if talking to an imbecile. “Rockland’s made me number three. I don’t think he’d have chosen me if I was prone to mistakes or,” his features twist in disgust, “‘simple miscommunications.’”
I’ve no time to respond because now there’s a beautiful, impeccably dressed attendant standing before us. Holding a glittering tray dotted with filled champagne flutes. She smiles sweetly, asking, “A bit of bubbly for your journey?”
“You’re an angel! I’ll take two, thanks,” I say, reaching over the wall of muscle beside me to retrieve the glasses from her. I plan to down the first one like a shot. Sip the second one—in two gulps.
Virgin: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 1
