Page 21 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

A s the tingling of my orgasm fades, embarrassment surfaces. I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I rode Mikhail’s thigh to climax, and now I am pretending to be asleep.

The start of our exchange and who made the first move are unclear to me, but I know who finished it.

Mikhail is a sex god. He knows exactly what to say and do to swoon you out of your panties, so to hear he was on the verge of coming in his pants from doing something as minute as a PG grind-up was addictive.

It brought me out of my slumbering state, where I was having the best dream of my life, and had me determined to make it a reality.

The results were better than I could have ever imagined, and it is taking everything I have not to pop my eyes open and marvel at the goodness of Mikhail’s post-orgasmic expression.

Is sweat clinging to his top lip? Are the roots of his sex-mused hair damp? Or does he look like a train wreck like I did whenever we messed the sheets?

I’ll never know because I’m not skilled enough to pretend I didn’t love everything we just did if I were to open my eyes.

I can’t let Mikhail know how fast he’s skating back under my skin, or he’ll eat me alive.

Just the way my body is responding to his leg still being wedged between my thighs announces this without prejudice. The coolness against my throbbing clit confirms a large wet patch has formed on the front of my sleeping shorts.

Still, shame doesn’t encroach on me.

The soft material caressing my knee feels just as damp. It proves Mikhail crossed the finish line seconds after me, and the knowledge is thrilling.

“Let me get something to clean you up,” Mikhail murmurs a second before the mattress springs creak, protesting to his shuffle as ruefully as my still-aching clit does.

Even with early-morning sunlight streaming through the window of the owner’s suite, I imagine Mikhail’s steps instead of tracing them.

I plan to work the “I was asleep” ruse to my grave.

Blaming a sleep-deprived head for my actions is better than acknowledging how much my body still craves this man. His smell alone is enough to trickle desire through my veins, so the flutter of his pulse against a sensitive region of my body will always instigate disaster.

When a faucet turning on sounds from the direction of the bathroom, I pop open my eyes. I’m alone, but the thundering of my pulse assures me it won’t be for long.

My first thought is to run like I did last night when the tension became too much. I would if my legs were up for another hundred laps. They’re too shaky for that. I doubt I could stand right now, let alone walk.

My climax wasn’t the longest I’ve had, but it was the most powerful. I couldn’t stop coming, and my throat is raw from the number of screams I had to hold back when Mikhail’s grunts during his release doubled their strength.

As I wait for Mikhail to return from the bathroom, aftercare clearly still a priority for him, my racing heart slows. It beats in a similar rhythm to the throbs of my clit, and it has me confident I’ll make a mistake I can’t take back if I don’t close my eyes right now.

It pains me, but I shut my eyes with barely a second to spare.

With one sense down, the sensitivity of its counterparts increases.

I hear Mikhail moving around his room. His footsteps are faint but deliberate.

The crack of an elastic waistband has me picturing him removing his stained sleeping pants and replacing them with a fresh pair, and then the sound of nails raking over a scalp instigates images of him dragging his fingers through his sweat-damp locks.

I imagine each precise movement he makes with ease, his after-sex routine second nature to him. He always took care of me like this, but it was compulsory back then because I was in an orgasmic coma and incapable of taking care of myself.

Memories flood my head, but I keep my breathing steady, not wanting to break the illusion that I am asleep.

After pressing a washcloth between my legs, mopping up some of the mess clinging my panties to my skin, Mikhail adjusts the blanket we kicked off when our snuggles became too heated to require outside assistance, tucking me in.

My heart thumps when a gentle touch caresses my forehead. He brushes back a stray lock of hair, his gesture tender. It speaks volumes about the man he has become and how pain can alter your perception but not wholly change you.

The gentleness of his embrace and his sigh when I fail to respond to it has me convinced I broke his heart, not the other way around.

I want to open my eyes, to force him to take the blame for our downfall, but I remain still, savoring the peace he offered when he didn’t recoil from me grinding against his thigh.

I’ve learned the hard way in the past ten years that an orgasm is a gift. It is not a given. So, as much as I want to remind Mikhail that we’re practically strangers because of the actions he took, I can’t.

Instead, I roll away from him, stuff a pillow between my legs as if he hasn’t satisfied my urges, and then count backward from a thousand.

Sexually depleted, I fall asleep somewhere in the low two hundreds.

By the time I wake again, the high-hanging sun is streaming through the cracks in the curtains, and the thump of my tired muscles relishes the coolness of an unslept-on pillow when I roll over to check the time. The sheets are cold where Mikhail slept, and the silence of the room feels heavy.

My throat grows scratchy when I learn it is almost noon. I’ve never slept in so late, and the bar was once open until 2 a.m. during its heydays.

After a quick stretch, I throw off the covers and slip out of bed. My stomach grumbles loudly, reminding me of the minuscule meal I consumed before burning off far more calories with a late-night swim.

As I rub my eyes, the events of last night flood back in. The spooning, the touching, the way my ignorance didn’t stop Mikhail from pulling me back onto his half of the mattress when he returned to bed. They all flood back in and cause me to shiver like the heating isn’t at a ghastly setting.

I don’t regret what happened last night, but I need to confront Mikhail about it. Mikhail and I crossed a boundary, and though I’d like to ignore it, I can’t.

As I make my way downstairs, the busy hum of the Zelenolsk estate gobbles up my footsteps. A hive of activity occurs around me, but none of them are occurring by the man I’m seeking.

My eyes don’t land on Mikhail until I enter the kitchen. He is seated at the breakfast nook, scrolling through messages on his phone. He appears well-rested, as if an orgasm solves everything.

He came twice in a matter of hours. I guess his theory could be valid. I feel extremely light on my feet, and I only floated between the clouds once.

Needing caffeine before I wrestle the obvious elephant in the room, I plaster a smile onto my face before making a beeline for the brimming coffee pot.

“Morning,” I greet halfway there to anyone listening.

Several pairs of eyes shift to me, but only one offers a vocal greeting.

“Morning,” Mikhail parrots, his voice strained as he drags his hooded gaze down my body.

I’m still wearing what I went to bed in last night—sticky underwear and all.

Mikhail’s eyes, now narrowed, return to my face when I say, “Before you say anything… these are shorts.” I point to the extremely indecent hem of my pajama shorts before hooking my thumb to my shirt. “This top is cotton. So, technically, I’m not breaking your highly irrational dress code.”

He looks confused. Utterly and wholly confused.

Still desperate for caffeine, I fetch a mug from an overhead cupboard like I’ve lived here for years before helping myself to the coffee in a recently replenished pot, horrifying the staff paid to answer Mikhail’s every whim.

I doubt they’ve ever seen a Dokovic make themselves a cup of coffee. My new surname may only be temporary, but my dislike of being fussed over would be foreign to them.

While nursing a murky black brew with two generous sugar clumps, I twist to face Mikhail. Even with the coffee scorching hot, I take a sip, needing to use the mug to hide my smile about his miffed expression.

Half my booty popped out the bottom of my shorts when I rose to my tippy-toes to gather a mug.

The lusty gleam from the gardener trimming the hedges near the kitchen window announces this, not to mention how scalded my skin became when a heated glare projected from Mikhail’s half of the enormous space during my stretch.

With mouthfuls of dark brew settled in my stomach, I attempt to relieve the confusion not even a rueful glare could budge.

“You said any hems on the skirts and dresses I wear should be knee length and that shirts need to be made from non-see-through material.” I highlight my shorts again.

“Shorts.” Next, I showcase my spaghetti-strap top, which is poorly concealing my erect nipples. “Cotton. Both Mikhail-approved attire.”

He grins, and I fight like hell not to squeeze my thighs together.

Why does he have to be so damn handsome?

This would be so much easier if he were ugly.

“I’m glad you paid enough attention to my jealous rant to put thought into your outfit selection. It shows you’re coming into this a little more open-minded than you were yesterday. I appreciate the effort.”

What he really wants to say is that he’s impressed by my submissiveness when possible future orgasms are on the table. He just took the less confronting route. It is a tactic all nice guys use.

Instead of handing me a completed puzzle to marvel at, Mikhail gives me a solo piece I’ll have no chance of deciphering without his help. “But I think you should reconsider. It’s as cold as a witch’s tit outside, and they’re forecasting snow.”

I’m both excited and peeved. I hate the cold, but if I have to choose between staying indoors and trekking through miles of snow, I will always pick the latter.

Though I need to keep that a secret from Mikhail.

“We’re going outside?” I try to say “we’re” with no emotion whatsoever. I shouldn’t have bothered. Possessiveness blazes through Mikhail’s eyes half a second before he bobs his head.

“As in the backyard or…?” I leave my question open for him to answer as he sees fit.

He follows my plan nicely.

There’s always a first time for anything.

“I thought we could go for a ride.”

With my excitement too blistering to harness, I eagerly nod.

My head bobs up and down for barely a second before I freeze and purse my lips.

“Ride?” I don’t give him a chance to speak.

“You bought a motorcycle?” Again, he nods, and then I speak at a million miles an hour.

“When? Is it custom like you wanted? Or did you buy it off the floor? What color did you get? I hope you didn’t go for the burnt orange paintwork the dealer suggested. That was hideous.”

I laugh, stupidly nervous. I want to pretend I’m clueless about why I am anxious, but that would be a lie.

When we discussed Mikhail getting a motorcycle license, our lengthy talks included a lot of naughty, we’ll-be-in-our-graves-before-we-turn-thirty scenarios.

Two people who are meant to hate each other can’t be hopeful about crossing those experiences off their bucket list, so I have no right to be nervous.

Mikhail’s smile widens, shifting from jealous to hungry and wolfish. “You’ll find out.”

His reply seems unfinished.

I learn why when he nudges his head to the breakfast nook and says, “After you’ve had breakfast.”

I snarl, baring my teeth. Even with the chef going all out, nothing stands out as appetizing—except perhaps the man seated behind the layers of calorie-laden food.

I’d happily eat him.

Heat burns through me when Mikhail angles his head before cocking a dark brow.

Anyone would swear he heard my private thoughts.

I try to save face. “There’s nothing on offer I want to waste calories on.”

With his gaze hooded, Mikhail leans back in his seat and then leisurely glides his eyes up my body.

I’m not wearing a bra. I rarely do while sleeping.

But instead of berating myself for being a prick tease when my braless state has his eyes lingering on my breasts longer than an acceptable glance, I mentally high-five myself.

His baby blues haze with lust as he drinks in my practically naked form. My pajamas cling to my body like a second skin, the thinness of their material sparser than a lace glove.

I nearly combust when he wets his lips while returning his eyes to my face. There’s so much tension, so much chemistry, that my pussy grows wet.

Mikhail has charm by the mile and a face that could stop traffic.

I am under his spell in an instant.

“Emerson?” Just the way he says my name makes me whimper. It is virile and hot.

I swallow thickly before attempting a reply. “Yeah.”

His smile ensures nothing but sex is on my mind. As do the words he speaks next. “Get your fine ass over here and eat something before I feed you the one thing I know won’t screw up your calorie count.” A needy whimper escapes me. “It will dip it into the negative.”

We always joked that cum is a negative-calorie food because of how many calories you burn preparing the feast.

I hesitate, and it makes the tension roasting. Then I join him in the nook like I wouldn’t give everything I have to pretend he didn’t break my heart.