Page 29 of Sinful Bride

That's what she said. Just that single word before she caught herself and tried to take it back. But I heard it. God, I fucking felt it. She wanted me to make her come. Wanted me to take control and make the decision for her so she wouldn't have to admit she wanted it.

But I didn't. And now I'm here, alone, my hand on my cock, imagining what it would have felt like to push her back on that bed and strip that nightgown off her. To see her completely naked for the first time. To map every inch of her skin with my hands and mouth. To taste her. To make her come on my tongue before I even thought about fucking her.

My rhythm falters as I moan, tense with the effort of not going back to her. My cock is leaking, slick with precum, and I use it to ease the friction as I stroke myself. If I went back, she’d let me do whatever I wanted. The perfect little princess, duty-bound to honor her husband however he desires. It’s only me keeping me from her bed tonight.

I imagine Elena's hand instead of mine. Imagine her on her knees in front of me, her dark eyes looking up at me as she wraps her fingers around my cock. Imagine the shock on her face when she realizes how much I want her. How hard I am for her. The look on her face as I push my cock between her lips, letting her taste my arousal. I’d tell her to get it nice and wet for me, as wet as I got her, before I slid into her tight virgin pussy.

My cock throbs painfully. I’ve never slept with a virgin before. It’s never been a thing that’s gotten me off. But the thought of taking Elena’s innocence, especially after how she’s looked at and talked to me, pushes me to the brink. Being the only man to ever make her squirm and beg and moan. The only man whose cock she’d ever learn, whose body she’d ever touch.

I want to see her on her knees. Want to feel her mouth on me. Want to watch her take me deeper, want to hear her gag slightly when I hit the back of her throat, want to see tears in her eyes from the effort. I want my princess on her knees, in front of the man she wants to degrade.

Fuck, I want to pull out and come all over her face.

Jesus Christ.

The image is so vivid, so intense, that my breathing goes ragged, my heart pounding, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool air in the room.

This is insane.

I barely know her. She hates me. She thinks I'm beneath her. She made it clear tonight that she sees our marriage as a duty and nothing more. And I'm standing here jerking off to fantasies of her begging for my cock.

But I can't stop. I force myself to slow down, at least, drawing it out. Making it last. Because once I come, the fantasy ends and I have to face reality again—that I'm married to a woman who doesn't want me.

A woman I can't stop wanting.

I stroke myself faster. I'm close now. So fucking close. The pressure is building, coiling tighter and tighter in my balls, at the base of my spine. I imagine pushing inside her for the first time. Feeling her tight and hot around me. Hearing her gasp. Seeing her eyes go wide with shock and pleasure at the new sensation as I make her feel every inch of me. I imagine her nails digging into my back. Her legs wrapping around my hips. Her voice breaking as she begs me for more, harder, please.

I imagine making her come. Feeling her clench around me. Hearing her scream my name.

And then I imagine coming inside her, and the fantasy pushes me over the edge.

My orgasm hits hard and suddenly, ripping through me with an intensity that makes my knees buckle. I brace myself against the window with both hands, my cock pulsing in my grip as I come in thick, hot spurts. It goes on and on, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it's almost painful.

Finally, it subsides. The pleasure fades, leaving me empty and frustrated and angry at myself for giving in. Angry at Elena for making me want her this much. Angry at the whole fucked-up situation that brought us here.

I clean myself up with a towel from the bathroom, then collapse on the bed. My body is exhausted, wrung out, but my mind won't stop racing. I can still feel her. Still taste her. Still hear that desperate little please that she tried to take back.

And I know with absolute certainty that this is going to be a hell of a marriage to figure out.

—

Morning comes too soon on the first day of us living together, the day after Elena and her things move into my penthouse, and I’ve barely slept. By the time dawn breaks, I'm exhausted and wired, and in no mood for whatever fresh hell this day is going to bring.

I gave Elena the master suite yesterday when her thing were brought up, like a gentleman. I’m not going to put myself through the torment of sleeping next to her when our marriage is unconsummated so far, and I know she doesn’t want me there anyway. So I took a guest room down the hall. She didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture in the slightest.

I shower and dress in jeans and a T-shirt—my usual uniform, not the expensive suits Elena's world expects. Then I head downstairs, following the smell of coffee and something sweet.

The dining room is bathed in morning light, all of the furnishings and decorations elegant and expensive. The table is set with fine china and crystal, like we're hosting a formal breakfast instead of just eating. Elena sits at one end, perfectly composed in a silk blouse and tailored pants. Her hair is pulled back and her makeup flawless. She looks like she slept perfectly—like last night never happened.

But I know better. I can see the tension in her shoulders when I look a little closer, and the slight shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide. She's as wrecked as I am.

Good.

The table is covered with papers—spreadsheets and lists, and what look like résumés. Elena has a pen in one hand and a coffee cup in the other, and she's making notes on one of the documents.

"Morning," I say, my voice still a little rough from sleep. I clear my throat.

She glances up, her expression cool and impassive. "Good morning."