Page 28 of Sinful Bride

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.