The Don's Accidental Bride

Elena's POV

I was lying on a soft bed, surrounded by pitch blackness, when the man pressing down on me suddenly slapped his palm against my clit, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain that made my spine arch off the bed.

Jesus Christ, what kind of whore gets off on having her pussy spanked like this?

But there I was, fisting the sheets, head thrown back, panting through parted lips that refused to close.

His hand, tough and unyielding, slid leisurely up my body. In an instant, his fingers circled my throat.

The pressure was perfect, just enough to make breathing a struggle while keeping me tethering on the edge.

My pussy clenched around nothing, slick and desperate.

God, it felt incredible.

My vision blurred as oxygen deprivation pulled me under. I clawed at his wrist instinctively, thrashing like I was drowning.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled near my ear.

Bastard.

He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying every second of watching me fall apart.

His grip loosened, and before I could catch my breath, he grabbed my wrist and guided my hand down to something thick, hard, and scorching hot.

The moment my fingers wrapped around his shaft, my brain short-circuited.

Holy shit.

This thing was massive—inhumanly so.

"Fuck, you're dripping," his breath hot and teasing against my ear. "Your pussy ready for me, baby?"

My core throbbed with need, empty and aching.

I shifted my hips toward him without thinking, my mind a haze of alcohol and lust.

This was it—I was actually going to lose my virginity to this stranger.

Could I even take something this size?

The head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and I could feel the heat radiating from him—

"Ah!"

A sharp, vicious pain tore through my thigh like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

The pleasure evaporated instantly.

Of all the fucking times for my old injury to flare up.

"What's wrong?" He froze.

The emptiness where his cock had been was unbearable, but the pain demanded attention.

I reached down to massage my thigh and accidentally grabbed his dick again.

His hand shot out, catching my wrist.

"Greedy girl," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement.

The pain, the alcohol, the raw desire—it all crashed over me at once, dragging me down into unconsciousness.

My head was killing me.

I woke up with my skull pounding like a drum.

Fragments of last night trickled back to me, and I realized the headache stemmed from the hangover.

Still, how could I have passed out purely from leg pain?

Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

I pressed my fingers to my temples and surveyed the damage: empty whiskey bottles littering the black marble bar, suspicious white stains on the leather couch.

The liquor cabinet was practically bare.

Christ, how much had I drunk?

My brain started replaying highlights against my will—the lace blindfold, the rope burns, his cut V-line, those rock-hard abs, the way his chest had felt under my palms.

And that cock.

That ridiculously huge cock.

What the hell was wrong with me?

This had to be residual alcohol poisoning talking.

When I got out of bed, I knocked something off the nightstand—an unopened box of condoms clattered to the floor.

I picked it up, staring at the intact packaging.

So we didn't actually fuck?

A relieved sigh escaped me.

Thank God.

That bastard must have pissed me off so badly that I had gotten blackout drunk and ended up with a male escort.

At least we hadn't gone all the way.

Why the hell would I throw away my virginity over some worthless piece of shit?

As I stretched, something caught my eye—a sleek black business card with gold embossing sitting on top of my discarded bra.

Male escorts were handing out corporate business cards now?

I ignored it, threw on my clothes from last night.

My phone—which I had turned off—sat on the floor.

The second I powered it on, ninety-nine-plus missed calls flooded the screen.

Mom.

Of course.

My stomach dropped as I answered the inevitable callback.

"Elena! Thank God you're alive! I was going crazy—I couldn't sleep all night! Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Did anyone touch you?" Her voice came through in a frantic rush that made my hangover ten times worse.

Here we go.

"I'm fine, Mom—"

"Fine? You disappeared for an entire night! What if something happened to your blood? What if you got injured? You know how precious you are, how careful you need to be—"

The familiar suffocating concern wrapped around my throat like a noose. Every word dripped with the kind of obsessive care that felt more like ownership than love.

"Mom, please, I just need—"

"I've been tracking your phone! You can't just turn it off like that! What if there was an emergency?"

Irritation surged through me. I cut her off. "I know, you don't need to worry about me. Is there anything else? I have to go to the office to work overtime in a bit, so if there's nothing else, I'm hanging up."

"Sure," she continued without missing a beat, "this weekend is her birthday, and she deserves a grand party and an extraordinary gift. We've chosen your gift for her—a master's program at USC with elite networking opportunities. Two hundred thousand."

My breath caught. "Two hundred thousand dollars?"

"It's not just money, Elena—it's Sabrina's future. It's a ticket to the upper class. If she gets a recommendation letter from a prestigious professor, her opportunities will be limitless."

The familiar guilt crashed over me. Since I was five, I had been destined to owe Sabrina for the rest of my life.

Exhausted and knowing she wouldn't stop until I agreed, I transferred every penny of my three years' savings to her account.

"Good. Oh, and Sabrina found a spa center for your leg pain—she's so thoughtful, always looking out for you. 73 Berlin Street. Go there immediately. You can't keep suffering like this, and I won't have you collapsing again. Your health is too important."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, emotionally drained. Going was easier than enduring another bombardment of suffocating concern disguised as love.

Following the address, I found 73 Berlin Street. From inside my car, I could see a cold metal sign hanging by the entrance, flanked by suggestive posters.

God, was this really a spa center?

I got out skeptically and approached. The door stood slightly ajar, yielding easily when I pushed.

A strange smell hit me as I stepped inside—metallic and sharp, something I couldn't quite place.

"Hello? Anyone here? I'm here for a massage."

I glanced around to find the space empty of clients, just a tall man standing behind the counter.

He wore a matte black silk shirt, the open collar revealing the full curve of his chest and a bullet scar cutting horizontally across his collarbone. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the fabric pulled taut over muscle in a way that seemed almost deliberate.

I don't know why, but catching sight of him instantly brought back thoughts of the escort I had spent that messy night with.

I forced my gaze upward to his face in what I hoped was a polite manner—a face sculpted by time and violence into something sharp as a blade.

Gray-blue eyes stared back at me as if they could see straight through to my core.

Was this man really just a masseur?

Everything about him radiated danger.