Page 35 of Sinful Bride

Like I didn’t just come within a breath of pressing my body against his and begging him to touch me the way he did on our wedding night. Admitting that I want to trace every line of ink on his skin and follow the path of water droplets with my tongue, pull that towel off and see all of him. Touch all of him. Taste all of him.

Stop it.

I lock myself in my office after I grab the file and lean against the door, my heart racing, my body on fire. I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only makes it worse. Makes me more aware of how wet I am. How empty. How much I need⁠—

You're lying to yourself.

His voice in my head again, mocking me. Taunting me. Reminding me that I'm not as in control as I pretend to be.

I press my hand between my legs, just for a moment. Just to ease the ache. But it's not enough. My fingers through my clothes can't give me what I need.

I pull my hand away with a frustrated sound. This is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. I can control myself. I can ignore this. I can⁠—

You can't.

I can't control the way my body responds to him, the desire that builds with every glimpse of him, every argument, every moment of tension between us. I'm losing control. And I don't know how to get it back.

By the end of the week, I'm wound so tight I can barely think straight. Every glimpse of him makes it worse; every moment of tension winds the spring tighter until I feel like I'm going to snap. Every argument adds fuel to the fire burning inside me. I catch him coming out of the gym again, his body glistening with sweat, and have to head immediately in the other direction. I see him in the kitchen late at night, drinking whiskey in nothing but his jeans, and have to grip the doorframe to keep from going to him. I hear him in the shower and imagine the water running over his skin, his hands on his body, and have to bite my lip to keep from moaning. I swear I hear him jerking off one morning when I’m up before him and walk past his bedroom—a low groan on the other side of the door, a sound that seems like flesh against flesh. My entire body goes white-hot with need when the image pops into my head.

And I hate myself for it. I hate that I lie in bed at night aching and frustrated and unable to sleep because all I can think about is the way he touched me. The way he made me feel. The way he walked away and left me wanting.

I need relief. I need something to take the edge off. I need to stop thinking about him every waking moment and dreaming about him when I finally manage to fall asleep. I need to stop wanting him.

I’ve tried touching myself, but it’s not good enough. The orgasms I manage to coax out feel weak, and the frustration only builds. I need something that will give me a release that can actually cool the desire that’s driving me insane, so I can focus on something else. Like how to manage a life with this man without having to actually interact with him more than necessary.

It’s occurred to me that he’s never once said anything about heirs or children. He doesn’t seem to care. Other mafia men would have already fucked me, if only because they would want me pregnant as soon as possible. But Declan has never so much as hinted that he’s thought about having a child. And he’s said he won’t touch me unless I beg for it.

If I can just ignore him, keep our marriage cold until he gets too frustrated and goes off and finds someone else, I might never have to face my fears of pregnancy. I could remain exactly as I am, and eventually he’ll give up, and we’ll drift apart to the point where I can manage my own life without his interference.

I just have to manage this infernal lust so I don’t break before he gets tired of this game.

So I do something I've never done before—something I would have been horrified by a month ago. Something that feels like admitting defeat, but also like the only option I have left.

I order a vibrator online.

It's a small bullet vibrator that arrives in plain packaging two days later. I hide it in my nightstand drawer and try not to think about what it means that I've resorted to this—that I'm so desperate for release that I'm willing to do something I was raised to believe was crass and inappropriate, beneath a woman of my station.

It doesn't mean anything. It's just—practical. A way to manage stress, to take care of a physical need without involving him. Without giving him what he wants and begging.

Without admitting that he's won.

But even as I tell myself this, I know it's a lie. I know that ordering this vibrator is an admission. An acknowledgment that I'm affected by him… that I want him. That I need relief from the constant ache between my thighs that won't go away no matter how hard I try to ignore it.

I'm ashamed and embarrassed, angry with myself for being so weak. For letting him get under my skin. For wanting a man who doesn't belong in my world and never will. But I'm also desperate.

And desperation makes people do things they never thought they would.

—

I wait until late at night, and I'm sure Declan is in his office or the guest room, or wherever he goes when he's avoiding me. Until the house is quiet and dark, and I can pretend I'm alone.

I lock my bedroom door, draw the curtains, and turn off all the lights except the small lamp on my nightstand. My hands shake slightly as I retrieve the vibrator from the drawer. It's so small and innocuous. Just a smooth piece of plastic that shouldn't feel like such a monumental decision. But it does, because using it feels like admitting something. Like acknowledging that I need this—that I'm affected by him. That I want him.

Touching myself with my own fingers is one thing, a momentary lapse. This took steps to decide to do it. This is a real admission that he’s getting to me.

No. I push the thought away. This isn't about him. This is about me and taking care of myself. I’m claiming some control over my own body and my own pleasure. This is just self-care, relieving some of the stress this marriage has brought on. I’m doing this for me, not him.

I lie back on the bed, still fully clothed in my silk pajamas. I'm not going to make this into something it's not. I'm just going to take the edge off—ease the ache so I can sleep. So I can think clearly and stop obsessing over a man who doesn't deserve my attention.