Page 80 of Sinful Bride

He slides out, almost to the tip, and then back in again slowly. “Oh God,” he groans. “Fuck, Elena…”

His hand slides to just above where he’s buried inside of me, his thumb rolling gently over my swollen clit as he leans in to kiss me again. His other hand finds my breast, all the while he starts to slowly stroke his cock in and out of me, as if he can’t touch me everywhere enough. “Fuck, I want you to come on my cock,” he breathes. “You’re so perfect. God, this is even better than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?” I whisper, looking at him, and he makes a choked sound.

“I rubbed my cock fucking raw fantasizing about you,” he groans. “But being inside of you is like fucking heaven. Fuck, I want to make you feel just as good, baby.” He slides into me again, and I gasp. The pain is starting to ebb, and the feeling of being so full is good.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, sinking into me all the way again, and I nod breathlessly. His thumb moves a little faster, his fingers teasing my nipple, and I feel the pleasure starting to build again. “Can you give me another one, baby? You’re taking my cock so well.” He pulls back a little, looking down at where we’re joined, and groans. “Fuck, look at that pretty pussy. It fits so perfectly around my cock. Such a perfect fit, baby.”

I moan, tightening around him, and his hips jerk. “Oh God, do that again, Elena.”

When I squeeze him again on purpose, he shudders. “Fuck!” He thrusts hard, and I grab onto his shoulders, clinging as his hands grip my hips, holding me steady. "You feel so good," he groans. "So fucking good, Elena."

I can't form words. I can only hold on as he fucks me, each thrust sending pleasure spiraling through me. He shifts the angle slightly, tilting me back as his thumb rubs firm circles over my clit, and suddenly I know I’m going to come again. I'm making sounds I've never made before—desperate, needy whimpers. The pressure builds higher. Tighter. I'm so close, right on the edge⁠—

He thrusts again, hard, and I cry out. I'm trembling, gasping, right there⁠—

"Declan—"

"I've got you." He thrusts harder, deeper. "Come for me, Elena. Let go."

I shatter. The orgasm crashes over me in waves, so intense I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel. My inner walls clench around him, and he groans, his rhythm faltering. "Fuck," he gasps. "Elena, I'm—I can’t, I’m going to⁠—"

And then, through the haze of pleasure, reality crashes back in. He's going to come inside me.

The thought sends a bolt of pure terror through me. Images flash through my mind—my mother, pale in bed from blood loss. The funeral. My father's cold dismissal of her death as an acceptable loss. The expectation that I'll do the same. That I'll risk my life to produce an heir.

"Wait." The word comes out panicked. "Wait, Declan, please⁠—"

He stills immediately, his eyes flying open. "What's wrong?"

"Pull out." My voice is shaking. "Please, please pull out."

Confusion flashes across his face. "Elena⁠—"

"Please!" I'm begging now, tears stinging my eyes. "Please, Declan, I can't—please pull out."

For a moment, he just stares at me. Then understanding dawns, and he doesn't argue. He just pulls out of me, his jaw clenched, and wraps his hand around his cock.

It only takes a few strokes before he's coming. I stare at him, caught between terror and fascination as I watch him throb and start to spurt, his cum painting my thigh and my belly with white streaks as he lets out a groan that sounds more like pain than pleasure. His whole body shudders as another spurt hits just beneath my breasts, and more spills onto my thigh. Then he's bracing himself against the counter beside me, breathing hard.

The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel his cum cooling on my skin and the ache between my legs where he was just inside me. My eyes burn with unexpected tears that I don’t totally understand.

"Elena." His voice is careful as he looks up at me, still breathing hard. "What just happened?"

I shake my head, unable to speak. My throat is too tight, my chest too constricted. I can't explain this. I can't tell him about the fear that's lived inside me since I was twelve years old, can't admit that the thought of pregnancy terrifies me more than anything else in this world.

He’s admitted his fear of failure to me, but I can’t bring myself to open up to him. Because that’s what this is—a failure of everything I’ve been taught that I’m supposed to be as a woman. The only thing I exist for in this world.

"Hey." He touches my face gently, turning me to look at him. "Talk to me."

"I can't." The words come out broken. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Elena—"

"Please." I look up at him. "Please don't make me talk about it. Not now. I can't—I just can't."

He studies my face for a long moment. I can see him trying to understand, trying to piece together what just happened. In the mafia world we both inhabit, wives are expected to get pregnant quickly. To produce heirs. To fulfill their duty. My panic doesn't make sense to him. He knows as well as I do what I would have been raised to do, and what is expected from us both.