Page 51 of Sinful Bride

One of the younger guys shifts in his seat. His gaze keeps darting to me, then away, like he's not sure where to look. Like he's uncomfortable being a witness to this, but also can't help being curious. His face is flushed. He's aroused by the power dynamic, probably, by the taboo of it.

Patrick keeps his eyes carefully on his notes. He doesn't look at me at all. His jaw is tight. He disapproves, I can tell. But he's not going to say anything or challenge me. He’s seen things like this before, exactly like I have, and he’s not flustered, just not approving.

Dante Moretti, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered. He's taking notes, his expression neutral, like this is just another afternoon meeting. Like having the boss's wife on her knees under the desk is perfectly normal business procedure.

Elena's mouth tightens around me. She hollows her cheeks slightly, sucking, and my hips jerk involuntarily. I cover it by reaching for a file on my desk, pretending to review something, but my hand is shaking slightly. She's getting better at this, finding what makes me react. She takes me deeper, her throat relaxing, and I feel the head of my cock hit the back of her mouth. She swallows around me, trying not to gag, and I feel the wet heat and the pressure. It feels so goddamn good. I want to come, but I also don’t want it to end. Having my wife’s mouth on my cock is exactly as fucking perfect as I fantasized it would be.

"Finn," I manage, my voice rougher. "What's the timeline on that?"

Finn looks up from his notes, taking a second to process the question. "Uh, we're looking at two weeks. Maybe three if there are complications with⁠—"

Elena's hand slides up to stroke my balls, and I nearly lose it right there. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, using the pain to keep from coming too soon and maintain the facade that I'm in control when really I'm barely holding on.

The guilt is still there, churning in my gut alongside the arousal. This is her first time. She should be learning this in private, with patience and encouragement. I should be guiding her gently, telling her what feels good, making sure she's comfortable. Instead, I'm using her and humiliating her. Making her perform for my men.

But I'm also so goddamn aroused I can barely think straight. My blood is pounding in my ears. My cock is throbbing in her mouth. Every nerve in my body is focused on the sensation of her lips and tongue and the soft, wet sounds she's making as she works me over.

She's learning fast. Her mouth moves with more confidence now, her hand and lips working in tandem. She takes me deeper, pulls back, then swirls her tongue around the head as she finds a rhythm that makes my vision blur at the edges.

"Patrick," I manage. "Status on the security issue we discussed last week?"

Patrick clears his throat. "Handled. The guy who was skimming is gone. Made an example of him like you wanted."

Elena's rhythm falters for just a second when Patrick mentions making an example. I feel her hesitate, her mouth going still around my cock. She's remembering what world she's in. What kind of man I am. What I'm capable of.

But then she continues, her lips sliding down my shaft again, and I lose the thread of whatever Patrick was saying.

The pleasure is overwhelming now, all-consuming. Her mouth is perfect—wet and hot and eager despite her initial reluctance. She's sucking me like she means it, like she wants this. Like she's not doing it because I ordered her to, but because she wants to make me come.

I know that's not true, that she's only doing this because I gave her no real choice. But the fantasy is intoxicating, that she wants me, that she's on her knees by choice. That this is about desire instead of power.

"Liam," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "What about the situation with the suppliers?"

Liam starts talking about negotiations and prices and delivery schedules. I nod like I'm listening instead of being completely focused on the feeling of my wife's mouth on my cock. Elena takes me deeper, all the way to the back of her throat, and swallows around me. And I can feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, my orgasm approaching like a freight train.

I should stop this, I think in one brief moment of clarity before it vanishes in the burning pleasure building past the point of no return. I should be a better man than this.

But I'm not a better man. I'm just a man. A man who's angry and frustrated and desperate for his wife to see him as something other than an inadequate replacement for the mafia boss she expected. And right now, with her mouth on my cock and my men watching, I feel powerful and in control. Like I'm finally proving something, even if what I'm proving is that I'm exactly the kind of bastard she thinks I am.

My hand drops beneath the desk, fingers tangling in her hair. I don't pull or guide her, just hold on, feeling the silky strands slide through my fingers as she moves. She doesn't pull away from my touch or stop what she's doing, just keeps sucking me, her mouth working steadily, her hand stroking what she can't fit in her mouth.

I ask Dante to fill me in on how his orientation is going, and Elena's rhythm falters when he speaks. I feel her hesitate, her mouth going still around my cock. Maybe she recognizes his voice, or maybe the Italian name gave her pause. I imagine she’s wondering if there’s a connection, if she doesn’t actually recognize him. The realization that one of her family's men is watching this—knowing what she's doing, seeing her humiliation—would be devastating.

But then she continues, her lips sliding down my shaft again, and I lose focus. The pleasure is too intense, overwhelming. I can feel myself getting close, the orgasm building, inevitable and unstoppable.

"Fuck," I breathe, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

She takes me deeper in response, her tongue sliding flat against the underside of my shaft, and I lose all possible control.

The orgasm hits like a punch to the gut. My entire body goes rigid, my hand tightening in her hair, my other hand gripping the arm of the chair hard enough to make the wood creak. I come in her mouth in hot, pulsing waves, my vision whiting out at the edges, my breath catching in my throat. It’s more intense than any orgasm I can remember, and I know my men know I’m coming in her mouth right now. There’s no way to hide it. Somehow, that spikes my pleasure even more, knowing that every one of them knows the excruciating pleasure I’m experiencing right now, some of them probably with hard, unfulfilled cocks from watching, while I get to come.

A sense of power washes over me. She doesn't pull away, though she chokes a little as spurt after spurt jets down her throat. She just takes it. She takes everything I give her and swallows it down like she's supposed to, like she's been trained for this.

Except she hasn't been. This is her first time. And I just made her do it in front of my men.

When it's over, I'm left shaking and breathless. My heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. The pleasure is already fading, replaced by a crushing wave of guilt and self-loathing.

What the fuck did I just do?