6. Elena #3
Something flashes in Declan's eyes that looks like frustration, even a little bit of anger, maybe. "Your duties," he repeats slowly.
"Yes."
He crosses to me, and I force myself not to flinch—not to show any reaction at all. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "And what exactly do you think those duties are, Elena?"
"I—" My throat is dry. "To be a good wife. To support you. To—"
"To lie there and think of Italy while I fuck you?"
The crude words make me flinch. "That's not—"
"Isn't it?" He reaches out, and I freeze as his fingers brush my jaw.
His touch is gentle, but there's steel underneath.
"You're sitting there in your virginal white nightgown, looking like a martyr about to be sacrificed.
You think I don't see it? You think I don't know exactly what you're thinking? "
"I'm trying to do what's expected—"
"What's expected." His thumb traces my lower lip, and despite everything, despite my fear and my anger and my determination to remain detached, I feel heat pool low in my belly.
"You think I'm an animal, don't you? Some rough, uncivilized brute who's going to throw you on the bed and take what he wants without caring how you feel. "
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back further. His eyes are dark and intense, burning into mine. "You've made it very clear what you think of me, wife. That I don't belong in your world. That I'm beneath you. That I'm nothing but an upstart who got lucky."
"Declan—"
"But here's what you don't understand." He leans closer, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that sends shivers down my spine. "I have more self-control than you could possibly imagine. And I'm not going to fuck you until you're begging me for it."
My breath catches. "What?"
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's something dangerous in his expression. Something that makes my pulse race and my skin flush hot.
"You heard me." His hand tightens in my hair—not painfully, but firm. "You think I'm going to fuck you tonight because it's expected? Because it's my right as your husband? You think I'm going to prove everything you believe about me?"
"I don't—"
"I'm going to prove you wrong." His other hand slides down my throat, over my collarbone, tracing the neckline of my nightgown. "I'm going to show you exactly how much control I have. How patient I can be. How long I can make you wait."
His fingers trail lower, skimming over the silk covering my breast. My nipple hardens instantly, and I hate my body for betraying me. Hate that I can feel heat building between my thighs, that my breathing is getting faster, that some traitorous part of me wants him to keep touching me.
"Declan—"
"Shh." His thumb brushes over my nipple through the silk, and I gasp. "I'm going to touch you. I'm going to make you feel things you don't want to feel. I'm going to get you so worked up, so desperate, that you forget all about duty and obligation and doing what's expected."
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, gathering the silk of my nightgown in his fist. He pulls it up slowly, exposing my thigh, then my hip, the white lace panties I'm wearing underneath.
"And then," he continues, his voice rough and dark and full of promise, "I'm going to leave you here. Wanting. Aching. Desperate for something you're too proud to ask for."
"You can't—"
"Yes, I can." His hand slides between my thighs, and even through the lace, I can feel the heat of his palm. "And I will. Because when I finally fuck you, Elena, it's not going to be because it's expected. It's not going to be because it's my right or your duty."
He presses his palm against me, and I can't stop the small sound that escapes my throat. I can't stop my hips from shifting toward his touch.
"It's going to be because you're begging me for it." His fingers stroke over the lace, finding the damp heat there, and his smile is dark and satisfied. "Because you want it so badly you can't think straight. Because you've finally admitted that you want me just as much as I want you."
"I don't—" But the protest dies on my lips as he presses harder, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles over the lace that make my breath catch and my thighs tremble.
"Liar." He leans in, his lips brushing my jaw, then my throat, up to the sensitive spot just below my ear. "Your body doesn't lie, wife. I can feel how wet you are even on the other side of these pretty little panties. How much you want this."
His fingers slip under the edge of my panties, and I gasp as he touches bare skin.
His fingers brush against me where I'm slick and hot and aching already, despite every wall I've tried to build.
His mouth, his voice, deepening and thickening with every word, the heat of his breath, how close his muscled body is—
No man has ever been so close to me, so forward, so arrogant, touched me or spoken to me this way. And without my permission, it is devastating me already.
"Declan—" His name comes out breathless, nothing like the cold, controlled tone I've been using all day.
"That's better." His voice rumbles into the hint of a groan as he strokes me slowly, his fingers sliding through my wetness, circling but never quite touching where I need him most. "I want to hear you say my name like that. Like you need me. Like you're desperate for me."
I bite my lip, trying to hold back the sounds threatening to escape. Trying to maintain some shred of dignity, some piece of control.
But he's relentless. His fingers move with maddening firmness, building the need until I'm trembling, my hands fisting in the silk sheets, my hips moving against his hand without my permission.
"Please—" The word slips out before I can stop it.
"Please what?" His thumb finds my clit, and I can’t bite back the moan that slips out. "Please stop? Please keep going? Please fuck you?"
"I—" I can't think. Can't form words. I can only feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
"Not yet." His fingers slide inside me, just the barest bit, and I arch against him, my body desperate for more. "Not until you're begging."
His fingers curl inside me, his thumb circling my clit, his other hand sliding up to cup my breast through the silk.
Every touch is calculated to drive me higher, to push me closer to the edge without letting me fall over.
I'm panting now, my skin flushed and damp with sweat, my body wound so tight I think I might shatter.
I can feel my orgasm building, so close, just out of reach—
And then he stops.
His hands leave my body, and I make a sound that's half protest, half sob.
Declan steps back, and when I force my eyes open, he's watching me with lustful satisfaction.
His breathing is rough, his pupils dilated, and I can see the evidence of his arousal straining against his pants.
He lifts his fingers slowly to his mouth, and I see him draw in a breath as he tastes me on his hand.
Like an animal. Like a beast. I try to form the accusation, but I can’t. I’m struggling to draw a full breath.
But he doesn't touch me again.
"What—" I can barely speak. "Why did you—"
"I told you." He adjusts himself, his jaw tight with restraint. "When I fuck you, it'll be because you're begging for it. Not before."
"You can't just—"
"I can." He turns toward the door, and panic flares in my chest.
"Where are you going?"
"My own room." He doesn't look back. "I'll see you in the morning, wife."
"Declan—"
But he's already gone. I'm left alone in the bridal suite, my body still trembling with unfulfilled need, my nightgown rucked up around my hips, my skin flushed and damp.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I understand exactly what kind of man I've married. Not a brute, but something far more dangerous.
A man with enough self-control to walk away. A man who intends to find out exactly how to break me down, piece by piece, until I give him what he wants.
A man who's just established that he's the one in control.
I lie back on the bed, my body still aching, my mind spinning. All I can think about is the way his hands felt on my skin. And as my hand slides down between my thighs to finish what he started, a terrible, traitorous part of me wishes he’d come back instead.