Page 16 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

M y stomach grumbles in disgust about a lack of nutrients when I flop onto the king-size bed in my room before switching my phone call to a FaceTime chat. Adding her face to the video call doesn’t interrupt my mother’s conversation, but it does change her expression.

“Are you okay, Emmy? You’re looking a little pale.”

I slide my thumb over the microphone at the bottom of my phone so she won’t hear the angry grumbles of my hungry tummy before jerking up my chin.

“I think I ate too much…” I leave off my last two words—peanut butter—mindful she is very much a don’t-kill-your-friends-by-being-selfish-and-bringing-peanut-butter-sandwiches-to-school parent.

She even removed the satay chicken skewers from the pub’s menu upon learning of Mikhail’s allergy.

“I’ve been a little gluttonous with my diet today. ”

Her laugh warms up my dead, cold heart. “You’ve always been a woman who gorges on her feelings. I’m just grateful you’re eating regularly.”

Someone please give her the Mother of the Year award already. It is long overdue.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” I smile when she adds with a laugh, “With Aunt Marcelle at the bar, my ears aren’t sure what’s happening. They’re not used to so much silence.”

A million questions race through my head, but I ignore them all and shake my head instead. I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking, so how can I explain it to anyone else?

“I was just calling to see how Wynne’s appointment went.” When a flare of worry darkens my mother’s eyes, I sit up, and my stomach’s gurgles double. “Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not.”

Lies, all lies!

“But the doctor requested some further testing.”

I nod but keep quiet, unsure I can speak without sobbing. My baby sister is my world. I’d lasso the moon for her as eagerly as I would for our mother… and perhaps Mikhail.

Don’t look at me like that. Feelings don’t vanish. They just get buried beneath a heap of ugliness not even the world’s best long-range diver is prepared to wade through to free.

“Did you book the tests today?”

Her solemn headshake reveals the cause of her earlier flare. “They’re very expensive. A clinic two hundred miles away is taking patients without insurance, but they’re booked out for the next three months.”

“Three months?”

She nods, breaking my heart further.

“We’ll rustle up the money. Things seemed… steady at the bar this afternoon when I dropped Aunt Marcelle off for her shift. We might reach our goal by the time they have an appointment available.”

I hate the word might as much as I hate the word maybe .

They’re both so indecisive.

I shake my head, ridding it of the thoughts of a dark-haired man and his devastatingly roguish blue eyes, before asking, “If we can pull together the money faster, could you secure an appointment closer to home and sooner?”

My mother nods, her ability to talk when she’s on the verge of crying as lackluster as mine. “But I don’t think that’s a possibility. Things are tight.”

“But they don’t have to be.”

I draw in a big breath before straying my eyes to the window of my room.

Things quietened quickly after I stuffed my peanut butter–loaded sandwich into my mouth, ensuring it smeared my lips, fingers, and thighs with enough nutty goodness to make Mikhail sweat.

The only noise that has been crackling the past three hours is the outdoor fireplace—Mikhail’s favored spot.

“I have a way to come up with some funds quickly. I just need a couple of days to instigate them.”

My clit throbs in anticipation, mistaking my plans. It is as hopelessly devoted to the worthless cause of seducing Mikhail as my heart is.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even care if he didn’t touch me again.

I enjoyed sucking his cock so much it was pleasurable even without orgasming.

The taste of his velvety warm skin, his unique manly scent, and how the veins feeding his magnificent manhood throbbed harder with every greedy suck has me more than eager for round two.

And don’t get me started on his moans when his cock jerked in my mouth, or how the tingles I’m attempting to douse will never subside.

I swallow to soothe the burn in my throat when my mother reminds me of the seriousness of our phone call.

“The earliest appointment I could find isn’t until next week, so you have time.

” The eagerness on her face slips away, replaced with worry.

“But are you sure this is something you want to do, Emmy?” You’d swear she knows about my agreement with Mikhail.

That’s how motherly her statement is. “I don’t want you putting yourself out. You’ve already done so much.”

“It’s fine. I’m happy to help.” My last words are just for me. And what’s the harm? It isn’t like he hasn’t already smashed my heart to pieces.

My mother smiles before she peers at someone over her iPad.

After a brisk nod, she returns her focus to me. “Darling, I have to go. Can I call you later?”

I nod. “But can you save it until tomorrow? I’m zonked.”

She smiles like my tiredness isn’t from my own vindictiveness before telling me she will speak to me tomorrow.

I reply with a similar sentiment before disconnecting our chat, tossing my phone onto a side table, and then slouching back. My head is thumping, I’m thirsty as hell, and if my calculations are correct, I’m close to my ovulation date.

That part of my cycle always makes me a little crazy.

As I age, my body becomes increasingly fussier about what it is being deprived of. It knows what it wants and doesn’t hold back its desires for anyone. So you can picture how tightly coiled I am after being an inch from the finish line, then having it stripped back three miles.

I’m horny as fuck and desperate enough to do something about it.

After drifting my eyes to the open window of my room and noticing the healthy flicker of a raging fire dancing across it, I slacken my breaths before slowly gliding my hand under the waistband of the sleeping pants I tossed on after dinner.

Air whizzes from my nose when I roll my fingertip over my clit. It is still firm and buzzing with anticipation, even after replacing Mikhail’s cum dancing on my taste buds with peanut butter.

My clit aches as I lower my fingers to the opening of my pussy. I keep the excitement high by pressing the pad of my palm against the nervy bud and piercing two fingertips through the lines of my pussy.

I’m wet—unashamedly. And the situation worsens when my hand explores myself with feverish eagerness.

A gasp parts my lips when I push my fingers inside deep enough to breach past the opening of my vagina, and then I moan when I remember how Mikhail used to milk my G-spot.

He is the only man who has ever found it, and the remembrance brings a smile to my face for the first time in a long time.

As I recall lazy mornings curled up on a mattress on the office floor at the pub, I pump my fingers in and out of myself.

Sunday mornings were my favorite. Mikhail and I had spent the prior two nights wrapped up in the hype of Lidny’s nightlife, but since our patrons reserved Sunday mornings for church and families, we had nothing to do but sleep in, fondle, kiss, and make love.

I learned all of Mikhail’s best traits on Sundays. How his touch was both torturous and delicious, that he loves giving head as much as he enjoys receiving it, and that one orgasm is never enough for him.

He rocketed me to the outer galaxies a minimum of three times every Sunday morning and even more on the days we skipped church.

While recalling dark, full brows, icy-blue eyes, and a face capable of bringing a nun to climax without self-stimulation, I finger fuck myself faster. My pumps are desperate but controlled. They move rhythmically to the wild beat of my heart as sounds of pleasure fill the room.

Moaning, I move my spare hand to my breast to fondle my nipple. I tweak the hardened bud and scrape it with my nails, mirroring the sensation of teeth grazing over it.

“Oh,” I moan when the quickest swipe of my tongue across my lips replaces some of the nutty goodness on my taste buds with the saltiness of Mikhail’s cum.

I thought I’d washed it all away.

When the tingling of an orgasm forms low in my stomach, I blink through a blurry haze. I’m not solely excited to have found my G-spot. I am also relishing the taste of Mikhail’s cum and naughtily plotting how to secure more.

He can pretend he hates me, but I know he doesn’t. In a jealous, neurotic way, the terms he added to our contract recite this without fault.

Mikhail only gets jealous and protective about the people he cares about.

If he’s not worried about you being stolen or hurt, you mean nothing to him.

His silence over the past ten years should slow my roll. It should have me pulling my hand out of my panties and scrubbing my fingers clean. But for some reason, it does the opposite.

I relax into the mattress before pushing my fingers in deeper, vainly trying to mimic the length of Mikhail’s cock when he fed it into my mouth.

Hard breaths soon fill the air as the finish line I am seeking appears on the horizon.

It has never been this easy in the past ten years. I’ve tried to self-pleasure multiple times, but it always ended with a heap of frustration and a ton of angry words.

I directed most of them at Mikhail because I blamed him for my faulty womanhood.

You can’t be bedded by a god and then expect to go back to faking it till you make it. But this time, I’m so close to the brink after only a handful of pumps that it’s scary.

After pressing my body deeper into the mattress, I move my thumb to my clit and augment the unladylike sweep of my thighs. As I finger fuck myself, I close my eyes and let my mind wander. I whimper when the last face I should want to see increases the tingles racing across my core.

Mikhail’s face is so crystal clear that I can smell his cologne lingering in the air and the unique scent his heated skin gets when he’s about to come. They double the height of the wave about to crest in my stomach and have my spare hand searching for something to clutch.

As I fist the sheets in a white-knuckle hold, my entire body convulses.

My breath catches in my throat as fiery embers ignite my skin.

I’m about to come, and then, horrifyingly, I realize I’m not alone.

With my throat burning from the number of screams I’ve held back the past fifteen minutes, my demand for my intruder to leave my room immediately is a pathetic squeak.

My inability to talk leaves me no choice but to yank my hand from my panties like my mother busted me masturbating and stray my eyes to the person trampling my privacy.

A new fire blazes through my stomach when my eyes land on a pair identical to the ones featured during my self-pleasuring exhibition. Mikhail stands in the doorway of our room. His fists are clenched, his brows are furrowed, and a large rock is bulging behind his zipper.

He knows what he’s walked in on but tries to act oblivious. If he is anything like the man I once dated, he is trying to save face for me, not himself.

“I thought I should check that you found everything okay.” A ghost-like grin etches his lips high on one side.

“You appear right at home.” His smile sags when he takes in the pajamas I found in one of the many drawers in the enormous walk-in closet.

They have Snoopy on them, as in the Peanuts franchise. “Still not done torturing me?”

He pulls a face that announces the size of the lump he just lodged into his throat before he crosses the room, undressing on the way.

I glance at my hands, trying not to look. It is virtually impossible. The definition of a god is in front of me, and my veins are still blazing like I’m only seconds from climaxing.

I am not strong enough for this.

Now Mikhail’s many references to our exchanges being torturous make sense.

This, him , is torture. Pure murderous I-want-to-kiss-the-stupid-grin-off-his-face torture.

And he makes it worse when he cranks his neck my way a second before he enters the bathroom. He catches my admiring stare and the gleam in my eyes that announces how badly I want to track my tongue over the tip of his cock again. But instead of discouraging my recklessness, he doubles it.

“There’s no shame in masturbating. Only the shame of knowing it will never compare to the passion displayed when soulmates unite. Not even sex is good compared to that. It is a mundane trailer of a love story people rarely get right.”