8. Elena #3
I press my hand between my legs, just for a moment. Just to ease the ache. But it's not enough. My fingers through my clothes can't give me what I need.
I pull my hand away with a frustrated sound. This is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. I can control myself. I can ignore this. I can—
You can't.
I can't control the way my body responds to him, the desire that builds with every glimpse of him, every argument, every moment of tension between us. I'm losing control. And I don't know how to get it back.
By the end of the week, I'm wound so tight I can barely think straight.
Every glimpse of him makes it worse; every moment of tension winds the spring tighter until I feel like I'm going to snap. Every argument adds fuel to the fire burning inside me. I catch him coming out of the gym again, his body glistening with sweat, and have to head immediately in the other direction. I see him in the kitchen late at night, drinking whiskey in nothing but his jeans, and have to grip the doorframe to keep from going to him. I hear him in the shower and imagine the water running over his skin, his hands on his body, and have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. I swear I hear him jerking off one morning when I’m up before him and walk past his bedroom—a low groan on the other side of the door, a sound that seems like flesh against flesh.
My entire body goes white-hot with need when the image pops into my head.
And I hate myself for it. I hate that I lie in bed at night aching and frustrated and unable to sleep because all I can think about is the way he touched me. The way he made me feel. The way he walked away and left me wanting.
I need relief. I need something to take the edge off. I need to stop thinking about him every waking moment and dreaming about him when I finally manage to fall asleep. I need to stop wanting him.
I’ve tried touching myself, but it’s not good enough.
The orgasms I manage to coax out feel weak, and the frustration only builds.
I need something that will give me a release that can actually cool the desire that’s driving me insane, so I can focus on something else.
Like how to manage a life with this man without having to actually interact with him more than necessary.
It’s occurred to me that he’s never once said anything about heirs or children.
He doesn’t seem to care. Other mafia men would have already fucked me, if only because they would want me pregnant as soon as possible.
But Declan has never so much as hinted that he’s thought about having a child.
And he’s said he won’t touch me unless I beg for it.
If I can just ignore him, keep our marriage cold until he gets too frustrated and goes off and finds someone else, I might never have to face my fears of pregnancy.
I could remain exactly as I am, and eventually he’ll give up, and we’ll drift apart to the point where I can manage my own life without his interference.
I just have to manage this infernal lust so I don’t break before he gets tired of this game.
So I do something I've never done before—something I would have been horrified by a month ago. Something that feels like admitting defeat, but also like the only option I have left.
I order a vibrator online.
It's a small bullet vibrator that arrives in plain packaging two days later.
I hide it in my nightstand drawer and try not to think about what it means that I've resorted to this—that I'm so desperate for release that I'm willing to do something I was raised to believe was crass and inappropriate, beneath a woman of my station.
It doesn't mean anything. It's just—practical. A way to manage stress, to take care of a physical need without involving him. Without giving him what he wants and begging.
Without admitting that he's won.
But even as I tell myself this, I know it's a lie. I know that ordering this vibrator is an admission. An acknowledgment that I'm affected by him… that I want him. That I need relief from the constant ache between my thighs that won't go away no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
I'm ashamed and embarrassed, angry with myself for being so weak. For letting him get under my skin. For wanting a man who doesn't belong in my world and never will. But I'm also desperate.
And desperation makes people do things they never thought they would.
—
I wait until late at night, and I'm sure Declan is in his office or the guest room, or wherever he goes when he's avoiding me. Until the house is quiet and dark, and I can pretend I'm alone.
I lock my bedroom door, draw the curtains, and turn off all the lights except the small lamp on my nightstand.
My hands shake slightly as I retrieve the vibrator from the drawer.
It's so small and innocuous. Just a smooth piece of plastic that shouldn't feel like such a monumental decision.
But it does, because using it feels like admitting something.
Like acknowledging that I need this—that I'm affected by him. That I want him.
Touching myself with my own fingers is one thing, a momentary lapse. This took steps to decide to do it. This is a real admission that he’s getting to me.
No. I push the thought away. This isn't about him. This is about me and taking care of myself. I’m claiming some control over my own body and my own pleasure. This is just self-care, relieving some of the stress this marriage has brought on. I’m doing this for me, not him.
I lie back on the bed, still fully clothed in my silk pajamas. I'm not going to make this into something it's not. I'm just going to take the edge off—ease the ache so I can sleep. So I can think clearly and stop obsessing over a man who doesn't deserve my attention.
I turn on the vibrator. It hums to life quietly, but the sound seems impossibly loud in the silence of the room.
I press it against myself through the silk, and the sensation is immediate and shockingly intense.
My hips jerk involuntarily, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making noise.
I feel a rush of arousal, pleasure sparking over every nerve, and I press my free hand over my mouth to muffle the gasp that escapes.
God. It feels so good. As good as when Declan—
Absolutely fucking not.
I close my eyes and try to focus on just the sensation.
Not on any particular fantasy or image or person.
Just the feeling of the vibrator against me, the pleasure building, the tension coiling tighter in my belly.
God, it’s good… I can feel the muscles in my legs trembling.
I’m going to come quickly if I can just not get in my own head…
But my mind betrays me.
I see Declan and feel his hands on me on our wedding night, the way his fingers felt inside me, stroking and curling and finding places I didn't know existed. He smelled so good, felt so strong, so big and masculine, like he could overpower me if he wanted, but he didn’t. He wanted me begging instead.
Please.
The word echoes in my head, and I press the vibrator harder against myself, chasing the release I need that will make this ache go away and let me sleep. That will let me stop thinking about him and wanting him and needing him.
I imagine his hands on my thighs, spreading them wider. His mouth on me, his tongue licking and sucking, driving me insane. His fingers inside me, filling me, stretching me, making me come so hard I see stars.
My breathing gets faster. My hips move against the vibrator, seeking more pressure, more friction, more—
The bedroom door opens.
I freeze, my eyes flying open, my hand still between my legs, the vibrator still humming against me through my pajamas.
Declan stands in the doorway. He's wearing jeans and nothing else, his hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. His eyes are dark and dangerous… and fixed on what I'm doing.
"I—" My voice won't work. I can't move. I just lie there frozen, with the vibrator still humming against me through my pajamas, my face burning with shame and arousal and fury at being caught.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. "What are you doing, Elena?"
I finally manage to move, pulling my hand away and turning off the vibrator.
"Get out!" I snap, hissing the words. My body feels tight with how close I was. I’m so wet I can feel that the silk between my thighs is damp. I’ve soaked through my panties and my silk pajama pants, and my face heats even further.
"I don't think so." He moves closer, and I scramble to sit up and put distance between us, but there's nowhere to go. "I heard something and came to check on you. And what do I find?"
"Nothing. I was just—"
"Just what?" He's at the edge of the bed, looking down at me with furious, lustful anger. "Just taking care of yourself because you're too proud to ask me for what you need?"
"I don't need anything from you."
"Liar." He holds out his hand. "Give it to me."
"What?"
"The vibrator. Give it to me."
"No." I clutch it tighter, feeling exposed and furious. "It's mine. You can't just—"
He moves faster than I expect. One moment he's standing at the edge of the bed, the next he's on it, his hand closing around my wrist. His grip is firm—not painful, but impossible to break. "Let go, Elena."
"No."
His grip tightens slightly. "Let. Go."
I hold on for another moment, but I know I can't win this. Not physically. Not when he's so much stronger than me. And worse still, his hand around my wrist makes my pulse race and my body heat. My pussy is throbbing, and I feel like I can’t breathe. My resistance crumbles.
I release the vibrator, and he takes it from my hand.
Then he breaks it.
Just snaps it in half like it's nothing.
"What the hell?" I stare at the broken pieces in his hand, shock and fury warring inside me. "You can't just—"
"I can." He tosses the pieces aside, and they clatter against the hardwood floor. "And I just did."
I’m so angry I can barely speak. "You had no right—"