7. Declan
DECLAN
The hotel room door closes behind me, and I lean back against it, my hand still on the handle, my breathing rough and uneven. My entire body is wound tight—muscles tense, heart racing, cock still hard and aching in my pants. The adrenaline from the docks hasn't faded. If anything, it's worse now.
I left my wife on our wedding night, wanting her, her body flushed and trembling, her eyes dark with need she didn't want to admit.
Good.
The thought is vicious, and completely at odds with the way my body is screaming at me to go back and finish what I started. To bury myself inside her until neither of us can think straight.
But I won't. Not until she begs.
I push away from the door and go to get another whiskey from this minibar. I drink it in one swallow straight from the miniature bottle, welcoming the burn down my throat and the heat spreading through my chest.
It doesn't help. I pour another into a glass and drink it more slowly this time, trying to focus on the taste, the warmth, anything other than the memory of Elena's skin under my hands.
The way she gasped when I touched her. The slick heat between her thighs.
The desperate little sounds she made when I denied her.
Fuck.
I set the glass down harder than I mean to.
The crystal clinks against the wood, and I stare at it for a long moment, trying to get myself under control.
I can still feel the violence from earlier thrumming through my veins.
The docks were a mess—another, smaller Russian family testing my boundaries, seeing if the new Irish boss would fold under pressure.
They thought my wedding day was the perfect time to make a move. Thought I'd be distracted and soft.
They were wrong.
I handled it, along with Cormac and two of my other men. I broke some bones and made some examples. It won’t be quickly forgotten.
And the whole time, all I could think about was getting back to Elena.
Getting back to my wife.
The word still feels wrong, like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
But she's mine now, in almost every way that matters to the families and the organization and the world we live in.
Except in one way.
I haven't made her mine in the most fundamental sense. And every cell in my body is screaming at me to fix that. To go back to that bridal suite and finish what I started. To make her understand that she belongs to me now, whether she likes it or not.
But that's exactly why I can't. She doesn't want it. Not really. She wants to do her duty. Wants to lie there and think of Italy while I fuck her like some kind of obligation she has to endure.
And I won't do that. I won't be that man.
Even if it feels like my fucking cock is going to break off right now, I’m so hard.
She tasted so fucking sweet. Just that hint of her on my fingers was enough to make me want to fall to my knees, spread those pretty thighs apart, and devour her until she came with my name on her lips.
But we’re not there yet. And if I force my way into her body and her bed regardless of her clear feelings about it, then I’m just proving exactly what she thinks of me.
I pour another whiskey and carry it to the window. Chicago at night spreads out below—my city now. My territory. My responsibility.
My prison.
I take a sip and close my eyes, but that's a mistake.
Because the moment I do, I see her. Elena in that white silk nightgown, sitting on the edge of the bed like a sacrifice.
The way her dark hair fell over her shoulders, the way her skin flushed when I touched her.
The way her body responded even as she tried to stay cold and controlled.
The way she looked at me when I walked away, so prettily shocked and furious that I could withstand her, beautiful Elena Capetti, the woman a hundred men in this city would have crawled on their knees to her father in order to wed.
And now she’s mine. I could be fucking her right now.
My cock throbs, and I shift uncomfortably, trying to ignore it. Trying to focus on anything else.
It doesn't work. I can still taste her, still feel the silk of her nightgown under my hands. Still hear the little gasp she made when I slid my fingers inside her that little bit, without going too far yet, and found her wet and ready despite all her protests.
She wanted it. She wanted me.
And I walked away.
The whiskey burns going down, but it's nothing compared to the heat building in my body, the need that's been coiling tighter and tighter since I left her room… hell, since I felt her body respond to mine. Since I proved to both of us that she's not as immune to me as she pretends to be.
I finish the glass and set it on the windowsill. My reflection stares back at me—copper hair disheveled, green eyes dark, jaw tight with tension. I look like a man on the edge of unraveling, and I feel like one too.
I’m a groom alone in a hotel room on his wedding night, and I feel like a fool, but I know I’m making the right choice.
I strip off my shirt and toss it over the chair. My skin is hot, flushed, every nerve ending alive and demanding. I can feel my pulse in my throat, my wrists, my cock. The adrenaline from the docks mixed with the arousal from Elena has left me wired and desperate, barely holding on to control.
I consider a cold shower, but deep down, I know better. There’s only one way to work out this tension, and it’s probably not going to do much for long, but it’s better than nothing. I'm only human. And I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my entire fucking life right now.
I unbuckle my belt and unzip my pants, and the relief is immediate. My cock springs free, thick and hard and aching, and I wrap my hand around it with a groan.
This is pathetic.
The thought flashes through my mind as I stroke myself once, then again, breathing hard at the pleasure that races down my spine. I'm jerking off in a hotel room on my wedding night because I'm too stubborn to fuck my own wife.
But it's not just stubbornness; it's also principle. I’m a violent man, but I’m not a man who hurts women.
And Elena doesn’t want me in her bed tonight, even if I could convince her body that she feels otherwise.
I need her begging, enthusiastically pleading for me to fuck her before I’ll give her more than what I did tonight.
I stroke myself harder, not bothering to draw it out.
My hand rides roughly up and down my shaft, urging me toward the climax I so desperately need.
My other hand braces against the window frame, and I lean forward, my forehead pressed against the cool glass.
The contrast between the cold window and the heat of my body is almost painful.
I close my eyes and let myself remember Elena's skin under my hands.
The way she tried to stay still and composed even as her body betrayed her.
The way her breathing quickened when I touched her breast through the silk.
The way her nipple hardened instantly, responding to me even though she didn't want it to.
The way she gasped when I slid my hand between her thighs.
Fuck.
My hand moves faster, my grip tighter. I can feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, the tension coiling in my balls. But it's not enough. Not nearly enough. I need more.
Elena on the bed, her nightgown rucked up around her hips, her thighs spread, her body open and exposed. The white lace of her panties damp with arousal. The way she felt when I touched her, slick and hot and wet.
So fucking wet for me despite all her protests. Despite her cold dismissal, and her cutting remarks, and her insistence that I'm beneath her. She can’t help but want me, the Irish biker, the man who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her. Her pussy got fucking wet for me.
I stroke myself harder, faster, my breathing rough and uneven. I imagine pulling those panties aside and sliding my fingers deeper this time. Feeling her clench around me. Hearing her gasp and moan and beg.
Please.
That's what she said. Just that single word before she caught herself and tried to take it back. But I heard it. God, I fucking felt it. She wanted me to make her come. Wanted me to take control and make the decision for her so she wouldn't have to admit she wanted it.
But I didn't. And now I'm here, alone, my hand on my cock, imagining what it would have felt like to push her back on that bed and strip that nightgown off her.
To see her completely naked for the first time.
To map every inch of her skin with my hands and mouth.
To taste her. To make her come on my tongue before I even thought about fucking her.
My rhythm falters as I moan, tense with the effort of not going back to her.
My cock is leaking, slick with precum, and I use it to ease the friction as I stroke myself.
If I went back, she’d let me do whatever I wanted.
The perfect little princess, duty-bound to honor her husband however he desires.
It’s only me keeping me from her bed tonight.
I imagine Elena's hand instead of mine. Imagine her on her knees in front of me, her dark eyes looking up at me as she wraps her fingers around my cock. Imagine the shock on her face when she realizes how much I want her. How hard I am for her. The look on her face as I push my cock between her lips, letting her taste my arousal. I’d tell her to get it nice and wet for me, as wet as I got her, before I slid into her tight virgin pussy.
My cock throbs painfully. I’ve never slept with a virgin before.
It’s never been a thing that’s gotten me off.
But the thought of taking Elena’s innocence, especially after how she’s looked at and talked to me, pushes me to the brink.
Being the only man to ever make her squirm and beg and moan.
The only man whose cock she’d ever learn, whose body she’d ever touch.