Page 22 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Mikhail

A cocky smirk hikes one side of my mouth high when Emerson slips into the booth and then grabs a slice of toast from a rack on her right.

I’m not smug because she followed a warning that I would have enforced.

It’s from the way her eyes bounce between the oversized catering tub of peanut butter and the freshly made jam, her nose screwed up in contemplation.

She settles for the jam, making me as happy as a pig in mud.

Her temporary wave of the white flag keeps the tension manageable and sees me enjoying more of the spread in front of us. I sample a little of each dish on offer. Emerson consumes one piece of toast, minus the crust.

“You can’t keep skipping meals. It isn’t healthy.”

“Tell that to your cardiologist when he’s squeezing the fat out of your arteries from eating that.” She jerks her head to the strips of bacon laden with maple syrup. Never one to diss other people’s eating habits, she shrugs before saying, “Breakfast has never been my thing.”

“Since?”

Her eyes flare with an array of responses.

Since you made up that cum is a negative-calorie food.

Since it forced you to show you care by reminding me of its importance.

Since the arguments it instigated inspired the best makeup sex imaginable.

But she settles for a shrug instead.

“I can ask Chef to prepare you something different,” I offer after dragging my eyes over the options.

Chef created this menu for a man in his late eighties with one foot already in the grave. The grease already feels sluggish in my stomach. I don’t blame Emerson for finding the offerings unappealing.

A throb beats through my cock when she whispers, “I doubt Chef has what I want.”

“What was that?” I heard what she said, every lusty syllable. I merely want to test if she’s game enough to repeat her needy reply.

That woman last night, the one who pretended to be asleep after getting off on my thigh, isn’t the Emerson Morozov I know. My girl had grit. She’d never fold after one punch.

My cock thickens when she locks eyes with me, and she states matter-of-factly, “I doubt Chef has what I want.”

There she is.

I slouch back like I’m clueless that my new position will reward her with an outline of my cock before I say, “How will you know if you’re unwilling to ask?”

Emerson removes a crumb that my tongue was fantasizing about devouring before she furrows her brows. “You make a good point. Communication is vital for any relationship… and it isn’t like you’re overly good at it, so I guess I better man up for the both of us.”

I don’t get to register how quickly she flicked the switch before she flings her head to the side of the room and waves Chef over.

He arrives at her side in an instant, my reprimand this morning that Emerson’s gender doesn’t make her less than in any of my households no doubt still ringing in his ears.

“What can I help you with, Ms. Dokovic?”

The reminder of Emerson’s new surname and my hurt that she’s accusing me of having bad communication skills and not being man enough sees me jumping headfirst into a fight I was hopeful to avoid.

She didn’t even have the decency to break up with me via a text message, so how the fuck can she accuse me of having shit communication skills?

“ Mrs . Dokovic will have two poached eggs on a thick slice of toasted rye, a side of steamed spinach and sautéed mushrooms, and freshly squeezed orange juice.” Again, I adjust my position, stealing the outline of my cock from her view since she’s no longer privileged to see it.

“Oh, and a side of cum. If you have it.” I return my eyes to Emerson’s and struggle not to smirk when I spot the shock on her face.

“If not, no bother. I’m sure I can rustle up some for my wife .

It is the least I can do since she’s forgotten that the validity of the argument corresponds with the strength of the orgasm its makeup sex will inspire. ”

Chef doesn’t know where to look when Emerson attempts to back away with her hands held in the air, bowing out like a coward.

Words tumble from my mouth with the crack of a whip, furious at her swift surrender. “Sit down.”

“I think?—”

“Sit before I pin you to the booth with my hands and my cock.”

Emerson’s nostrils flare, vainly trying to portray false anger. I know better. She’s not raring up for a fight. For different reasons this time, she’s fighting to avoid surrendering again.

She’s also struggling not to kiss me as if her “man up” comment didn’t shatter my confidence.

For weeks, my grandfather and father ridiculed me for being dumped and shoved me down the totem pole of importance. It took years to earn back the respect her wedding day dumping stole.

I will not let anyone strip it from me again.

When Emerson plops back into her seat like her dizziness is from a lack of nutrients, I suck in a deep breath to cool my heated veins before shifting my eyes to Chef. The heat of his beady gaze is the only reason I threatened Emerson with words instead of actions.

Chef swallows before he makes an excuse to leave. “Poached eggs on rye. Coming right up.”

He scatters away, his footing as unsteady as my breaths, when I slowly return my eyes to Emerson.

The rise and fall of her chest matches mine when I say, “Was that communicative enough for you?”

Her eyes dance between mine for several long seconds, her confusion growing the longer they bounce before she eventually jerks up her chin, once again bowing out without drawing blood.