Page 12 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Over his theatrics and not having the strength to warn him to steer clear of them if he wishes to remain employed, I walk away.

He halves the length of my strides by asking, “Shall I organize for the doctor to arrive earlier than planned?”

I tilt back and arch a brow, seeking answers without words.

Kolya falls into line remarkably fast. “For the proof they’ll require before payment.”

Since I’m still lost and incapable of hiding it, he tugs me into an alcove, away from prying eyes, before leaning in close.

“Each supplementary bonus requires proof. A marriage certificate, media approval, the public’s reaction to a charity event or gala.” He stops, swallows, then starts again. “Proof of the consummation of the marriage.”

It takes a moment, but when the truth smacks into me, my knuckles pop as my hands ball into firm fists. “If you touch my wife, I will kill you.”

I’ve always been overprotective of Emerson, and my response proves it is as potent today as it was the day she left me.

Though if I were honest, I’d admit it isn’t solely protection burning me alive right now.

I’m jealous as fuck as well. Not once in three years did I witness Emerson flirt with anyone but me.

Her response to the flight crew’s bug-eyed expressions announces she isn’t taking the rules of our vows seriously, which means she is wasting both of our time.

Kolya’s pupils dilate as his Adam’s apple bobs when I add a glare to my worded threat.

“Not me personally. We have a doctor on standby. We scheduled his arrival for an hour after your restaurant reservation expired.” Again, he leans in.

“From the stories I’ve heard, eating in may require his attendance sooner than planned. ”

I can barely hear him over the grinding of my molars. My frustration isn’t solely about what he says next, but also that stories are being shared.

I don’t kiss and tell—ever. But associating Emerson’s name with what I assure you is highly fabricated gossip strengthens my resolve.

Kolya keeps unknowingly digging his grave. “To process your bonus payment for that term, you must provide documented proof that you finished inside her.”

I don’t know what angers me more: that Emerson will be paid for sleeping with me or his belief that I’d let someone examine my wife.

When my fury spikes, I settle on the latter.

I’ve fucked around and fooled around for years, but this is different. As far as anyone is concerned, Emerson is my wife. That should instantly make her untouchable. Yet here they are, acting like a pelvic examination is a perfectly acceptable term of a marriage contract.

The tightness of my jaw shortens my words. “We don’t need a doctor.”

Lines sprout across Kolya’s head. “Is your wife aware of that? She didn’t veer straight to the marital room for no reason.”

Needing to walk away before I forget Kolya isn’t the playwright of a lonely and cruel old man’s dying wish, I head for the stairwell that leads to the owner’s wing while repeating my statement. “We don’t need a doctor.”

Kolya looks desperate to continue our conversation but keeps his mouth shut, his begging portrayed solely by his eyes.

He’s smarter than I’ve given him credit for.

With my mood circling the drain, I enter the owner’s suite without knocking. Emerson ditched the head maid as fast as I did Kolya, but from what my eyes land on, it was for an entirely different reason.

She removed her hideous trench coat and her cock-thickening lace dress, leaving only mismatched boyleg panties and a semi-padded bra.

She’s practically naked, and I’m seconds from humping the air like a dog in heat.

Against the screaming protests of my head, I drag my eyes down her body in a slow and dedicated sweep. As I drink in a body too worthy for any man, my dick thickens so fast it is painful, the crown leaking pre-cum.

From the tiny bow at the top of her panties to the loose thread in her bra, everything about her makes my body convulse. She’s a fucking masterpiece, and since I didn’t stumble into a skit not prepared for me, I’m granted minutes to marvel at every perfect stroke.

My prolonged gawk makes my instant obsession with this woman worse. It also reminds me of the first time we locked eyes.

I wanted to fuck her hard back then, and I wanted it to be filthy.

The same is true now.

Angry sex is almost on par with jealousy sex.

Both are out of this world good.

But that’s all it would be. Rough, angry, I-fucking-hate-that-I-still-love-you sex. Then she’d be gone. Never to be seen. Again.

The circled monetary amount on the contract dumped on our marital bed announces this, not to mention Emerson’s let’s-get-it-over-with expression.

This is worse than angry sex. Desperation sex is the lowest on the scale, and the one thing I refuse to do with anyone, much less with a woman I once cared about.

A woman I still care about.

So, after forcing my eyes to the floor, I deliver two words I never thought I’d speak in front of the equivalent of a walking wet dream. “Get dressed.”