Page 33 of The Kingpin’s Bride

The crowd reacted harder. Several hands were openly moving now. One of the older dons shifted in his seat with a rough exhalation, eyes fixed on the wet place where the Matteo’s disappeared into me over and over. He did not look at them. He kept his gaze on my face, watching every unwilling flicker of pleasure like data he was collecting.

“Come on my cock,” he ordered, voice flat, almost bored. “Right here. In front of all of them. Let them see what happens when I decide to teach a virgin to come on a real cock.”

My body was climbing, traitorously, helplessly. For one fractured second I had a choice. I could keep fighting the rising heat, keep denying him and the watching men the full sound of my breaking. Or I could stop fighting and take the only power left to me: the power to look him in the eyes while it happened.

I chose the second.

I forced my eyes open, locked them on his cold, dark stare, and let the orgasm tear through me with my gaze fixed on the man who was claiming me. If they were going to watch me come apart, they would watch me do it looking at the man who made it happen.

He reached between us and found my clit with his thumb, rubbing tight, mean circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much. The stretch, the public eyes, the heavy weight of the ring on my finger, the knowledge that Camilla’s safety hung on my obedience, everything crashed together.

I came with a shattered cry, walls locking down around him so hard he cursed under his breath and drove into me even deeper. My vision whited out. My thighs shook violently around his hips. He fucked me through it, relentless, cold, precise, while my orgasm milked him. The watching men made no attempt to hide their reactions now.

Low groans, the wet sound of hands on cocks, the creak of chairs as bodies shifted for a better view. Matteo Ventura did not care. He simply kept moving, using my aftershocks against me, grinding deep until the oversensitivity tipped back into fresh, impossible need against my will.

“Again,” he said against my mouth, voice controlled. “You’re going to come again. They’re going to watch a stranger force it out of you a second time.”

“I can’t. Please. It’s too much. I don’t even know who you are,” I hissed.

“You don’t need to.” He kissed me then, hard and deep, swallowing the rest of my protest.

His tongue stroked against mine the same way his cock stroked inside me, claiming, owning, relentless. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine and his voice dropped, cold. “Feel me. That is all that matters. This is the only cock you will ever experience. The only one that gets to fill this pussy. Your body understands.”

The soft words did something the hard ones hadn’t. Something cracked open in my chest even as fear coiled tight in my stomach. My bound hands flexed uselessly above my head. I turned my face into his neck and breathed him in, expensive cologne and hot sweat and the faint metallic edge of power, and let the next wave build against every instinct I had left.

He felt the change. His rhythm shifted again, becoming almost gentle for a few thrusts, then hard again, then gentle, never letting me find a steady place to hide.

One of his hands slid down between us and circled my clit with devastating precision. The other stayed tangled with my chained wrists, his thumb stroking the inside of my palm in a gesture that was unexpectedly controlled. Still turning me on while the entire room watched and touched themselves to the sight of it.

Don Esposito’s voice came from somewhere around us as he spoke,“Finish it properly, Ventura.”

Matteo laughed dark and breathlessly, and then switched to an angle that made my whole body jerk.

“That’s it,” he growled against my ear. “Let them hear you. Let them see who owns this pussy now.”

The second orgasm was deeper, longer, almost violent in its intensity. My walls clenched and fluttered and milked him in rhythmic waves that finally pulled a raw, low sound from his chest as I dug my nails into his shoulder.

He fucked me through it, never slowing, never giving me a second to recover, until the pleasure tipped into something almost painful and then back into pleasure again. I was sobbing. I was begging. I was coming apart in front of every powerful man in the city while they watched and stroked and groaned, and some dark, secret part of me loved and admired how thoroughly a stranger had forced it from me.

Only then did Matteo chase his own release.

His rhythm turned brutal, deep, punishing strokes that forced broken cries out of me with every thrust. His hand left my clit and gripped my hip hard enough to bruise, holding me so he could bury himself as deep as possible. His forehead dropped to mine. His breath was hot and ragged against my lips, the first real crack in the cold control.

“Fuck.”

He buried himself to the root and came with a low, guttural groan that seemed to vibrate through my entire body. Hot pulses flooded me, thick and endless. I felt every spurt, every throb, the wet heat of a complete stranger claiming the deepest part of me while the entire room watched.

He stayed locked inside me for long seconds afterward, breathing hard against my neck, one hand pinning my wrists, the other sliding up to rest possessively over my lower belly like he was imagining what he had just started.

When he finally pulled out, the loss was sudden and filthy. Cum immediately leaked down the cleft of my ass onto the black platform in a thick, slow trickle. He looked down at the mess he had made of me, swollen, used, marked, and something almost soft flickered across his face before the cold mask slid fully back into place.

Matteo tucked himself away with hands that were almost steady again, then reached down and lifted me into his arms as if I were something he had simply finished inspecting. My head fell against his shoulder. I was too wrecked to hold it up.

The chains clinked softly between us. Cum continued to drip down my thighs with every step he took.

Don Esposito’s voice carried across the sudden hush. “The union is consummated. The seat is yours. Welcome to the table.”

Dark, scattered applause rose. Matteo did not acknowledge it. He simply carried me off the stage, past the hungry, still-flushed eyes of the men who had watched and touched themselves to the sight of us, past Dario’s stunned and furious face, and into the private hallway that led to the back exit. I covered my face with my hands.