11. Declan #3
The guilt is still there, churning in my gut alongside the arousal.
This is her first time. She should be learning this in private, with patience and encouragement.
I should be guiding her gently, telling her what feels good, making sure she's comfortable.
Instead, I'm using her and humiliating her. Making her perform for my men.
But I'm also so goddamn aroused I can barely think straight. My blood is pounding in my ears. My cock is throbbing in her mouth. Every nerve in my body is focused on the sensation of her lips and tongue and the soft, wet sounds she's making as she works me over.
She's learning fast. Her mouth moves with more confidence now, her hand and lips working in tandem. She takes me deeper, pulls back, then swirls her tongue around the head as she finds a rhythm that makes my vision blur at the edges.
"Patrick," I manage. "Status on the security issue we discussed last week?"
Patrick clears his throat. "Handled. The guy who was skimming is gone. Made an example of him like you wanted."
Elena's rhythm falters for just a second when Patrick mentions making an example. I feel her hesitate, her mouth going still around my cock. She's remembering what world she's in. What kind of man I am. What I'm capable of.
But then she continues, her lips sliding down my shaft again, and I lose the thread of whatever Patrick was saying.
The pleasure is overwhelming now, all-consuming. Her mouth is perfect—wet and hot and eager despite her initial reluctance. She's sucking me like she means it, like she wants this. Like she's not doing it because I ordered her to, but because she wants to make me come.
I know that's not true, that she's only doing this because I gave her no real choice. But the fantasy is intoxicating, that she wants me, that she's on her knees by choice. That this is about desire instead of power.
"Liam," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "What about the situation with the suppliers?"
Liam starts talking about negotiations and prices and delivery schedules.
I nod like I'm listening instead of being completely focused on the feeling of my wife's mouth on my cock.
Elena takes me deeper, all the way to the back of her throat, and swallows around me.
And I can feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, my orgasm approaching like a freight train.
I should stop this, I think in one brief moment of clarity before it vanishes in the burning pleasure building past the point of no return. I should be a better man than this.
But I'm not a better man. I'm just a man.
A man who's angry and frustrated and desperate for his wife to see him as something other than an inadequate replacement for the mafia boss she expected.
And right now, with her mouth on my cock and my men watching, I feel powerful and in control.
Like I'm finally proving something, even if what I'm proving is that I'm exactly the kind of bastard she thinks I am.
My hand drops beneath the desk, fingers tangling in her hair.
I don't pull or guide her, just hold on, feeling the silky strands slide through my fingers as she moves.
She doesn't pull away from my touch or stop what she's doing, just keeps sucking me, her mouth working steadily, her hand stroking what she can't fit in her mouth.
I ask Dante to fill me in on how his orientation is going, and Elena's rhythm falters when he speaks. I feel her hesitate, her mouth going still around my cock. Maybe she recognizes his voice, or maybe the Italian name gave her pause. I imagine she’s wondering if there’s a connection, if she doesn’t actually recognize him.
The realization that one of her family's men is watching this—knowing what she's doing, seeing her humiliation—would be devastating.
But then she continues, her lips sliding down my shaft again, and I lose focus. The pleasure is too intense, overwhelming. I can feel myself getting close, the orgasm building, inevitable and unstoppable.
"Fuck," I breathe, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
She takes me deeper in response, her tongue sliding flat against the underside of my shaft, and I lose all possible control.
The orgasm hits like a punch to the gut.
My entire body goes rigid, my hand tightening in her hair, my other hand gripping the arm of the chair hard enough to make the wood creak.
I come in her mouth in hot, pulsing waves, my vision whiting out at the edges, my breath catching in my throat.
It’s more intense than any orgasm I can remember, and I know my men know I’m coming in her mouth right now.
There’s no way to hide it. Somehow, that spikes my pleasure even more, knowing that every one of them knows the excruciating pleasure I’m experiencing right now, some of them probably with hard, unfulfilled cocks from watching, while I get to come.
A sense of power washes over me. She doesn't pull away, though she chokes a little as spurt after spurt jets down her throat. She just takes it. She takes everything I give her and swallows it down like she's supposed to, like she's been trained for this.
Except she hasn't been. This is her first time. And I just made her do it in front of my men.
When it's over, I'm left shaking and breathless. My heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. The pleasure is already fading, replaced by a crushing wave of guilt and self-loathing.
What the fuck did I just do?
Elena pulls back slowly. I feel her tuck me back into my pants, zip me up, and refasten my belt with trembling fingers. Her hands are shaking worse now than when she started. Then she's crawling backward out from under the desk, getting to her feet on the other side.
I force myself to look at her.
Her face is flushed. Her lips are swollen and red. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, and there's something in her expression that makes my chest tighten painfully.
Humiliation. Pure, devastating humiliation. And something else, that looks like betrayal. Like she can't believe I actually made her do this. Like she thought I was better than this, which I don’t understand, considering how she’s behaved like she thinks I’m some kind of animal.
But maybe I just proved her right.
“Will that be all?” she asks quietly, and I nod, unable to speak. “May I be excused?”
The sight of her swollen lips and flushed face is enough to make my spent cock twitch, but I ignore it, the guilt now stronger than the arousal. I nod, and she turns and walks elegantly toward the door, her head high, looking straight ahead without looking at any of the men.
The door closes behind her with a soft click, and the room is silent.
No one moves or speaks. The air feels thick with tension and discomfort. My men are looking anywhere but at me.
I clear my throat. "All right. Let's wrap this up. Finn, send me the updated numbers by end of day. Cormac, follow up on the North side situation. Dante, keep your ear to the ground with the Capettis. Everyone else, you know what you need to do."
The men stand, gathering their things. They file out one by one, not meeting my eyes or saying anything, just leaving as quickly as they can. All except one.
Ronan O'Sullivan, one of my oldest men who's been with the organization since before Lachlan handed it over to me, stays behind. He waits until the others are gone, then closes the door and turns to face me.
He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. It looks like a mixture of disappointment and concern. "That was a mistake," he says finally.
I lean back in my chair, trying to look unbothered, like a man who's in control and knows exactly what he's doing. "She disrespected me in front of my men. I had to do something."
"You had to do something," Ronan agrees. "But not that."
"Why not?" I hear the defensiveness in my own voice, the need to justify what I just did. "They've seen worse. This isn't—"
"It's not about what they've seen." Ronan's voice is unyielding. "It's about what you've done. You're not that kind of leader, Declan. You never have been. You lead through respect and loyalty, not through humiliation and power plays. And now your men are out there wondering who the hell you are."
"I'm the boss," I say flatly. "That's who I am."
"You're a man who just humiliated his wife to prove a point." Ronan's expression is almost sad. "And I'm telling you, as someone who's been in this life a lot longer than you have, that's going to make things worse. Not better."
"She needed to learn—"
"What? That you're willing to degrade her in front of your men? That you'll use her body as a tool to assert your dominance?" Ronan shakes his head. "That's not teaching her anything except that you're exactly what she thinks you are—a man who doesn't deserve her respect."
Fuck. He's right. I know he's right, and I have since I made this plan. I just brute-forced my way through it because I was convinced I had to do something.
"What do I do?" I ask, sounding defeated.
Ronan sighs. "You apologize and try to make it right. And you figure out a better way to handle your marriage before you destroy it completely." He pauses, then adds, "Lachlan wouldn't have done this. You know that, right?"
I had that thought, too. Another one that I tried to force out of my head to justify what I was doing.
"She's your wife, Declan. Not your enemy. Start treating her like it." He leaves without waiting for a response.
I sit there alone in my office and wonder what the fuck I've become. The pleasure is gone. The satisfaction is gone. All that's left is the image of Elena's face as she left—the humiliation and betrayal, and the knowledge that I put that look there.
I chose to do this to her.
I'm exactly the kind of man she thinks I am.