Page 7 of Sinful Bride

You don't belong here.

Maybe I don't. But I'm here anyway. And I'm not going anywhere.

I drain the whiskey, set the glass on the nightstand, and lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. I need to sleep. But the fantasy comes back, stronger this time.

I imagine Elena in this bed. In my space, surrounded by my things, by me. No longer in control, no longer the perfect mafia princess, just mine.

I could take my time with her, strip her slowly, savoring every inch of skin revealed. Kiss her until she was breathless, until she forgot why she ever thought she was better than me. Then I'd lay her out on these sheets and show her exactly what a man from my world can do. How good rough and animalistic can be when it's all focused on her pleasure.

My hand moves to my cock, and this time I can't stop myself. I stayed as hard as I've been since the moment I let myself start thinking about her, all through my shower, and now the ache is too much. I wrap my fingers around my shaft, squeezing, and the sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through me.

Fuck.

I stroke myself slowly, letting the fantasy unfold in my mind. Elena beneath me, her legs spread, her body arching as I tease her, making her beg for it. I'd make her admit that she wants me, that all her disdain was just a mask for desire.

I'd kiss down her body, taking the time to taste every inch of her skin, to find out what the richest mafia princess in Chicago does when I trace her all over with my tongue. I'd find all the places that make her gasp and moan. And when I finally put my mouth on her pussy, when I finally gave her what she was begging for, I'd make her come so hard she forgot her own name.

My hand moves faster now, my breathing harsh in the quiet room. I imagine the sounds she'd make. The way she'd taste. The way her thighs would tremble as I worked her with my tongue. How she'd go limp against the sheets, moaning my name, and how I'd flip her over after and put her on her hands and knees. Show her what it means to submit to a man like me.

I'd grip her hips hard enough to leave marks. Bruises she'd see tomorrow and remember who made her feel this way. Remember that the biker she looked down on was the one who made her scream.

I'd slide into her slowly, savoring the tight heat of her body. Watch her back arch, her hands fisting in the sheets. And I'd fuck her hard, claiming her, marking her, making her mine.

Mine.

The thought sends me over the edge. My hand moves faster, rougher, chasing the release building at the base of my spine. I imagine Elena's face, her eyes wide and dark with pleasure, her mouth open as she moans my name. Just Declan, raw and desperate on her lips. I imagine how she'd squeeze me, fisting my cock like it's her pussy as I imagine thrusting deep and coming inside of her bare.

The orgasm steals my breath away, pleasure slamming through me in waves. I stroke myself through it, my hips jerking, my breath coming in harsh gasps. Cum spills over my hand, hot and thick, and I work myself until the sensation becomes too much. I'm oversensitive and shaking, still stroking before I finally force myself to pull my cum-slick hand away from my throbbing length.

Fuck.

I lie there for a moment, my heart pounding. The fantasy is already fading, reality creeping back in. I'm alone in my bed, my hand covered in my own cum, having just jerked off to thoughts of a woman who despises me.

Pathetic. I could have gone out and gotten laid, instead of jerking off like a teenage boy to a woman who would laugh at me if she knew. I reach for the tissues on my nightstand, cleaning myself up. The post-orgasm clarity is setting in now, and with it comes self-loathing. What the fuck am I doing? Elena Capetti is never going to be on her knees for me. She's never going to be in my bed, never going to moan my name or see me as anything other than the upstart who doesn't belong.

And I don't want Enzo Capetti as a father-in-law, which is the only way a woman like that would ever end up in my bed. I'd have to put a ring on her finger and say vows, and the last fucking thing in the world I want is to tie myself to a mafia family like that.

It's bad enough I inherited an organization. I'm not going to fucking marry one.

I toss the tissues in the trash and lie back down, staring at the ceiling again. My body is finally relaxed, the tension forced out of me, but my mind is still racing.

I need to forget about her and focus on the business and proving myself to my men, to the other families, and to myself. I don't have time for distractions, especially not ones that come wrapped in silk and disdain.

My phone rings, jolting me out of my self-flagellation. The sound is jarring in the quiet room, and I reach for it automatically, squinting at the screen. It's Cormac, one of my lieutenants. Calling at—I check the time—one-thirty in the morning.

Nothing good happens at one-thirty in the morning.

I answer. "What is it?"

"Boss." Cormac's voice is urgent. "We've got a problem. Big problem. You need to get to one of the warehouses now." He rattles off an address.

My stomach drops. "What happened?"

"Explosion. The whole fucking place went up. We've got casualties, and—" His voice breaks slightly. "It's bad, Declan. It's really bad."

I'm already up and grabbing clothes from my closet, my mind shifting gears from fantasy to crisis in an instant. "How many casualties?"

"At least five dead. Maybe more. We're still pulling bodies out."