7. Declan #2
I want to see her on her knees. Want to feel her mouth on me. Want to watch her take me deeper, want to hear her gag slightly when I hit the back of her throat, want to see tears in her eyes from the effort. I want my princess on her knees, in front of the man she wants to degrade.
Fuck, I want to pull out and come all over her face.
Jesus Christ.
The image is so vivid, so intense, that my breathing goes ragged, my heart pounding, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool air in the room.
This is insane.
I barely know her. She hates me. She thinks I'm beneath her. She made it clear tonight that she sees our marriage as a duty and nothing more. And I'm standing here jerking off to fantasies of her begging for my cock.
But I can't stop. I force myself to slow down, at least, drawing it out. Making it last. Because once I come, the fantasy ends and I have to face reality again—that I'm married to a woman who doesn't want me.
A woman I can't stop wanting.
I stroke myself faster. I'm close now. So fucking close.
The pressure is building, coiling tighter and tighter in my balls, at the base of my spine.
I imagine pushing inside her for the first time.
Feeling her tight and hot around me. Hearing her gasp.
Seeing her eyes go wide with shock and pleasure at the new sensation as I make her feel every inch of me.
I imagine her nails digging into my back.
Her legs wrapping around my hips. Her voice breaking as she begs me for more, harder, please.
I imagine making her come. Feeling her clench around me. Hearing her scream my name.
And then I imagine coming inside her, and the fantasy pushes me over the edge.
My orgasm hits hard and suddenly, ripping through me with an intensity that makes my knees buckle. I brace myself against the window with both hands, my cock pulsing in my grip as I come in thick, hot spurts. It goes on and on, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it's almost painful.
Finally, it subsides. The pleasure fades, leaving me empty and frustrated and angry at myself for giving in. Angry at Elena for making me want her this much. Angry at the whole fucked-up situation that brought us here.
I clean myself up with a towel from the bathroom, then collapse on the bed. My body is exhausted, wrung out, but my mind won't stop racing. I can still feel her. Still taste her. Still hear that desperate little please that she tried to take back.
And I know with absolute certainty that this is going to be a hell of a marriage to figure out.
—
Morning comes too soon on the first day of us living together, the day after Elena and her things move into my penthouse, and I’ve barely slept. By the time dawn breaks, I'm exhausted and wired, and in no mood for whatever fresh hell this day is going to bring.
I gave Elena the master suite yesterday when her thing were brought up, like a gentleman.
I’m not going to put myself through the torment of sleeping next to her when our marriage is unconsummated so far, and I know she doesn’t want me there anyway.
So I took a guest room down the hall. She didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture in the slightest.
I shower and dress in jeans and a T-shirt—my usual uniform, not the expensive suits Elena's world expects. Then I head downstairs, following the smell of coffee and something sweet.
The dining room is bathed in morning light, all of the furnishings and decorations elegant and expensive.
The table is set with fine china and crystal, like we're hosting a formal breakfast instead of just eating.
Elena sits at one end, perfectly composed in a silk blouse and tailored pants.
Her hair is pulled back and her makeup flawless.
She looks like she slept perfectly—like last night never happened.
But I know better. I can see the tension in her shoulders when I look a little closer, and the slight shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide. She's as wrecked as I am.
Good.
The table is covered with papers—spreadsheets and lists, and what look like résumés. Elena has a pen in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, and she's making notes on one of the documents.
"Morning," I say, my voice still a little rough from sleep. I clear my throat.
She glances up, her expression cool and impassive. "Good morning."
No acknowledgment of last night. No mention of what happened—or didn't happen—between us.
Fine. Two can play that game.
I pour myself coffee from the carafe on the kitchen’s bar counter and take a seat across from her. There's a spread of pastries and fruit, but I'm not hungry. I haven't been hungry since yesterday.
"What's all this?" I gesture to the papers.
"Household management." She doesn't look up from her notes. "I'm hiring additional staff. A full-time cook, a housekeeper, and a house manager to coordinate everything. Possibly a driver as well."
I stare at her. "What?"
"We need proper staff for a household of our standing." She looks up and gives me a look like I’m an idiot. "The current arrangement is insufficient."
"The current arrangement is fine." I keep my voice level. "Bonnie comes in once a week to clean. I can cook for myself. I don't need—"
"You may not need it." Her expression is stiff and cold. "But I do. And this household does. We'll be entertaining. Hosting dinners. That requires proper staff."
"Proper staff," I repeat the words slowly, feeling anger start to simmer in my gut. "You mean the kind of staff a real mafia boss would have."
"I mean the kind of staff appropriate for our position." She sets down her pen. "Unless you'd prefer to continue living like you're still running a motorcycle club."
There it is, the dismissal. The reminder that I don't belong in her world. That I'm not good enough.
My anger flares hotter. "I don't need a dozen people running around my house to prove I'm legitimate."
"Our house." She corrects me sharply. "And it's not about proving anything. It's about maintaining standards. There are certain appearances that are expected, and—"
"Standards." I lean back in my chair, studying her. She's so fucking composed. So perfectly put together. Like she didn't fall apart in my hands last night and beg me to touch her. I’m so fucking tempted to remind her of that right now. "Is that what you call it?"
How is it possible to be so aroused by such a cold, disdainful woman? I never thought a woman who so clearly hates me could get me hard, but here we are.
"What would you call it?"
"Control." I set my coffee cup down. "You're trying to control something because you can't control anything else. You can't control who you married. Can't control what happens in our bed. So you're hiring staff and making lists so you feel like you have some power."
Her jaw tightens. "I'm ensuring our household runs properly. As I was raised to do. I'm trying to establish a functional household."
I push myself up from my seat, circling around the table toward her.
I see her stiffen immediately. "You're trying to remind me I'm not good enough for you.
" I stop beside her chair, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
"That I'm just some brute who doesn't understand how things are supposed to work in your world. "
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to." I lean down, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair and caging her in. "But here's what you don't understand, Elena. Being married to a brute could be very enjoyable, if you'd just stop fighting it. If you'd just admit what you want."
Her breath catches. "I don't want—"
"Liar." I catch a whiff of her perfume, and my cock throbs. She’s feeling the same way—I can see her pupils dilate. "You wanted it last night. You want it now. You're just too proud to admit it."
"If you're going to consummate this marriage—" Her voice is steady, but I can see her pulse racing in her throat. "—then do it the old-fashioned way. I'll do my duty. Nothing more."
My jaw tightens. Duty. That's all I am to her. An obligation. A chore to be endured.
I straighten, putting distance between us. "No."
She blinks. "What?"
"I said no." I step back, shoving my hands into my pockets. "In my world, a man doesn't fuck his woman unless he knows she wants it. I'm not going to take you like some animal just because it's my right as your husband."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what you're asking for. You want me to prove I'm the brute you think I am. You want me to take what I want without caring if you're willing. Well, I won't do it."
"Then what do you want?" She stands up suddenly, facing me, a flush building in her cheeks as her composure finally cracks the smallest bit. "What do you expect from me?"
"The truth." I hold her gaze. "I want you to admit you want me. I want you to stop hiding behind duty and obligation and all the bullshit your father taught you. I want you to be honest about what you feel."
"I feel nothing."
"Another lie." I turn toward the door. "But keep telling yourself that, Elena. Keep hiring your staff and pretending you're in control. Eventually, you'll realize the truth."
"What truth?"
I look back at her. "That you're just as trapped as I am. And the only way out is if we try to make something of this together, instead of you pretending you’re too good to be here."
I leave before she can respond. Leave her standing there in her perfect dining room with her perfect plans and all her lies to herself.
I have work to do and territory to secure. Men to lead. A reputation to build.
And a wife who thinks I'm beneath her. But I meant what I said last night. When I finally fuck her—and I will—it'll be because she's begging for it.
Not before.
No matter how insane it drives me in the meantime.