Page 6 of Sinful Bride

Fuck.

I set the glass down hard, the crystal ringing against the granite counter next to me. I don't want to think about that, or acknowledge the way my body responded to her even as she was cutting me down with her words.

But I can't help remembering the curve of her waist under my hand, the way the silk of her dress slid against my palm. The scent of her perfume, that smelled expensive and floral. I couldn't name it, but I'd recognize it anywhere now.

The way she looked up at me with those dark eyes, challenge and disdain written across her beautiful face.

And she is beautiful. Devastatingly so—the kind of beautiful that makes men stupid, makes them forget who they are and what they want. Long dark hair that fell in waves down her back, olive skin that looked impossibly soft, lips painted a deep shade of rose that made me think of things I had no business thinking about.

I wanted to kiss her, right there on the dance floor, in front of everyone, and see if I could wipe that superior expression off her face.

I wanted to make her see me as something other than the biker who got lucky.

The thought sends heat through me, pooling low in my gut. I shift, uncomfortable with the direction my thoughts are taking. It's been too long since I've had a woman. Months, actually, since I left New York. I've been too busy trying to keep my head above water, learning the business and proving myself to men who don't know me—only that their former boss told them I'm in charge now.

That's all this is. Sexual frustration. Nothing more.

But even as I tell myself that, my mind is conjuring images I can't control. Elena on her knees in front of me, that perfect posture finally broken, looking up at me with something other than contempt in her eyes. Her hands bound behind her back, maybe. Or gripping my thighs. Her mouth⁠—

Stop.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is insane. She's a Capetti. The daughter of one of the most powerful men in Chicago. She's untouchable, for a man like me. And even if she wasn't, she made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me.

I'm beneath her in every way that matters to people like her.

I should go to bed. It's late, and I have meetings tomorrow. The business of running a criminal organization never stops, never gives me a moment to breathe.

But I don't. Instead, I pour another whiskey and move to the windows, staring out at the city spread below me. Somewhere out there, Elena Capetti is probably still at that party, dancing with men who belong in her world. Men with the right last names who know the right fucking forks for every course at dinner.

Men who would never make her bow.

The thought comes unbidden, and this time I don't push it away. I let it unfold in my mind—Elena kneeling before me because I've made her want to, proven to her that I'm not just some biker who stumbled into power. That I'm worthy of her attention, her respect… her submission.

I imagine the way she'd look, stripped of that expensive dress, naked and vulnerable, her pride finally cracked. I'd make her ask for it, make her beg. Make her admit that she wants me, that she sees me as more than what she assumed I was.

My cock is stiffening, and I don't fight it this time. I just let the fantasy play out, letting myself imagine what it would be like to have Elena Capetti at my mercy.

I'd start slow. Make her wait. Make her understand that I'm in control now, not her. I'd trace my fingers along her jaw, tilt her face up to look at me. Watch those dark, judgmental eyes soften with need.

Then I'd tell her to open her mouth.

The image is so vivid it's almost real—Elena's lips parting, her tongue darting out to wet them. The way she'd look at me, uncertain for the first time since I met her, waiting for my next command.

Good girl, I'd say. I'd watch her react to the praise, watch her body respond even as her mind tried to resist. I'd slide my thumb into her mouth, letting her get used to the feeling of submission, of taking something from me. She'd suck on it, tentative at first, then more confident. And I'd feel that wet heat and imagine what it would be like when it was my cock instead.

My hand moves to my belt as my cock twitches and jumps, eager for the wet heat I'm imagining, and I stop myself. Fuck, Declan, not here in front of the windows overlooking the city, like some fucking exhibitionist.

In fact, just stop altogether. This is insane.

But the fantasy doesn't stop. It follows me as I walk to my bedroom, strip off my clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water pounds against my skin, but it doesn't wash away the images in my head.

Elena on her knees. Elena with her hands bound. Elena begging me to fuck her.

I tell myself it's just stress. Just the humiliation of tonight, finding an outlet. I finish my shower and dry off, my body still thrumming with unspent energy. It's past midnight now, but I'm not tired. I'm wired and restless, my mind refusing to settle.

I could work—go through the reports my men sent me, review the numbers from this week's operations. But I can't focus on spreadsheets and territory maps right now.

I pour myself one more whiskey and sit on the edge of my bed, the glass cold in my hand. The city is quieter now, the traffic sounds muted by the expensive windows. In the silence, all I can hear is my own breathing and the echo of Elena's voice.