Page 26 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

The world fades away as I take in my favorite shade of green, leaving nothing but me and the woman I once declared I’d follow to the end of the earth.

Electricity courses between us as all the unease of our earlier exchanges disappears. I firm my grip around her waist, tugging her in closer, careless that she may hear the brutal pounds of my heart.

Emerson’s gaze remains steadfast, the scent of her skin thickening my cock.

Lust flickers in her hooded gaze as the space between us narrows even more.

I caress her cheek, sending surges of electricity rocketing up my arm.

All doubts vanish when she leans into my embrace.

Her eyes close for the briefest second, as if making sure she isn’t dreaming, before they open again, fired with desire.

The urge to kiss her, to forgive and forget, grows stronger the brighter her eyes become. Her gaze is vulnerable but filled with the same hope flooding my veins. They offer a glimpse of how explosive we could be again if we stopped looking back and only peered forward.

Its silent promise is an aphrodisiac, and I’m dependent on its powers in under a nanosecond.

A desperate mewl vibrates against my lips when I roll my hips upward. I don’t know if it came from Emerson or me. It could be the combination of our desperations.

“Please,” Emerson begs, her breaths whistling between her teeth.

When I stabilize her hips, she rocks against me, stroking herself with the length of my thickened cock. My dick is hard and aching, so its rocks against her heated core cause the perfect amount of friction.

I want to fuck her, desperately. But it has nothing on how badly I want to kiss her.

Kissing is the one thing I’ve deprived myself of for the past ten years.

It is the sole thing I reserved for my wife.

As the ferocious need to fuck claws at me, I brush my nose down Emerson’s cheek, drinking in a scent that is uniquely hers, before saying, “If we do this?—”

Our faces are half an inch apart, the anticipation palpable when Emerson pushes past the barrier I am attempting to keep erect between us.

She squashes her lips against mine.

The world stops when my lips part at the request of her lashing tongue and she spears it into my mouth.

Our kiss is soft and gentle, but it swiftly moves to passionate when I take charge of our exchange.

I am desperate to taste her again, so within seconds of Emerson handing over the reins, my tongue strokes the roof of her mouth as my throat traps her husky moans.

The flavors that erupt on my taste buds make my chest ache. They’re so familiar, so wanted. They remind me of the good times I thought I’d never have again and have me frantic to relish every second.

Our kiss overflows with the emotions we’ve suppressed, and within minutes, it consumes me.

I kiss her with everything I have, evolving her excitement while also claiming her as I struggled not to the moment I laid eyes on her again.

Emerson’s fingers get lost in my hair as she pulls me closer, deepening our embrace. She returns my kiss with as much intensity—with as much ownership.

Our kiss feels as long as an eternity and as minute as a heartbeat at the same time.

I’m raring for more and far from having my fill, but I also want it to end so we can take this to a more suitable location.

This tourist spot isn’t as popular in the winter months, but its beauty still attracts a handful of tourists each day.

Again, I rock my hips upward, needing her to feel how much I want her, before I attempt to pull back.

I say attempt because Emerson pounces again before a snippet of air can separate us. She kisses the column of my throat before nuzzling her cheek against the two-day stubble I’ve not had the chance to shave.

A shudder rolls through me when she confesses how much she has missed my smell, and then it shivers through her when I roll her over.

After looping my arm around her back and yanking her hips upward, I reunite our lips. I kiss her like I’m not out of practice with modern-day techniques, and Emerson can’t get enough.

She moans my name and arches her back as sparks of pleasure rain over her skin. Then her breathing stills when I wedge a hand under her woolen sweater.

We rock in sync for the next several minutes while I tweak her nipples through her lacy bra. I’m so fucking hard, and my dick is leaking pre-cum so much that I’m certain there will be a wet patch in the front of my jeans by the time we finish, but I don’t give a fuck.

I couldn’t stop this now even if we suddenly received an audience.

Emerson is all fire and lust. She moans into my mouth while rubbing against me, grinding her sweet-scented pussy along the length of my shaft. My balls tighten as our grind-up offers a spicy prelude to how explosive the sex will be when we finally give in to the tension.

Last night, I slowed down our rhythm, not wanting our frantic thrusts to wake her.

I don’t do that this time around.

I pin her to the soddy ground, squeezing, moaning, and tweaking. My hands don’t stop moving. I play with her breasts, fondle her nipples, and grip her ass firmly enough to mark while returning a kiss hot enough to wear the Pants Jizzer title for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Emerson doesn’t seem to mind. She matches my rocks grind for grind while licking my lips and telling me how close to the edge she is.

I fucking love being able to get her off with nothing but a PG grind-up, but I need more.

More tension.

More friction.

More her.

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

“I need you inside me.” Her words tumble from her mouth with a needy gasp.

“Where?” As one of my hands skates to the waistband of her jeans, the other tilts her hips high in preparation to drag her jeans to her knees the second she announces where she wants me. “Tell me where.”

“Anywhere. I just need you.” Her last sentence thickens my veins with exhilaration. My brain hazes with lust as we explore each other’s mouths, touching, tasting, and devouring. “Please, Mikhail.”

I trap her pretty little moans with my mouth while ruefully tugging at the fastener in her jeans. The button pops without too much coercion, but before I can lower the zipper, a giggle sounds from above us.

An alerted howl closely follows it.

I look back so fast that I almost give myself whiplash. A girl I suspect is around sixteen has her eyes covered by a woman I assume is her mother. The elder of the duo scowls at me so unrepentantly that wrinkles sprout from more than just the corners of her eyes.

She looks like she sucked on a lemon while scalding our highly inappropriate hookup spot. “This is a public area. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

I should be, but I’m not.

Kissing Emerson righted the axis of my world again. It is no longer tilted.

I won’t let anyone take that from us, much less a woman who looks like she’s never had a day of fun in her life. She’s in her forties, not dead.

For the first time in the past twenty minutes, Emerson isn’t on board with my plan. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Like fucking hell it won’t,” I mutter under my breath when she rolls out from beneath me, buttoning up her jeans and righting her sweater on the way.

Begrudgingly, I follow suit, though my movements are slower since I don’t want to be arrested for public indecency.

After wiping her muddy hands down her jeans, Emerson thrusts one out in offering. “You have my word.”

When the lady huffs, rudely dismissing her wordless offer of a ceasefire, the teenager wrangles free.

“Come on, Mom. You’re acting like I was conceived by immaculate conception.

” After giggling at her mother’s horrified expression, the blonde slips her hand in Emerson’s, shakes it, then tilts in close.

“The Gen Xs still think people come here solely for the view.” Her disgusted expression brings her age bracket closer to seventeen than sixteen.

“That may be the case during daylight hours, but once the sun goes down, all bets are off.”

Emerson giggles, loving her free-spiritedness, and I move closer.

Big mistake.

The blonde’s eyes widen to the size of saucers as her mouth falls open.

Emerson’s eyes rocket to my crotch, assuming the outline of my cock isn’t hidden by the low hang of my shirt and jacket.

She’s not accustomed to my face being recognized by the younger generation.

When we dated, the money-hungry gold diggers my grandfather dealt with during his entire political career fawned over my father and Andrik.

I didn’t get a look in until I created my own hype.

Regretfully, it isn’t the type of exposure I want Emerson to learn about.

“Oh my god!” The teen’s breaths whip out of her mouth along with her words. “You’re Mikhail Dokovic!”

“Dokovic?” Her mother murmurs, her eyes raking over my face as a backpack is shoved into her chest. “As in, Ellis Dokovic’s son?” Her eyes flicker as if she is recalling me sitting next to my father at my grandfather’s televised wake. “Oh dear…”

Before I can assure her that she didn’t insult the future president of our great country—Andrik’s shoulders bore that burden from the day of his conception—the teen re-enters the conversation.

“Mikhail Dokovic, as in Bachelor of the Year finalist three years straight. And...”—she pauses, building the suspense, only speaking when she wrangles a glossy magazine and an iPhone out of the backpack she shoved into her mother’s chest—“Russia’s most prolific fuckboy. ”

The mother scoffs again, adding to the shame heating my cheeks.

Emerson remains quiet.

With the magazine stuffed under her arm, the teen lifts her iPhone to document our exchange.

No one believes anything these days unless you have proof, and although this isn’t the shoot I was preparing to undertake today, I’d rather mollify the teen with a handful of snaps than see the details of my escapade splashed over the covers of magazines tomorrow morning.

A fan will defend its idol to the end of time— if the idol remembers they’d be nothing without their fans.

Emerson twists in enough time to miss the blinding flash of multiple images being snapped in quick succession, and then her hands shoot up to protect her eyes from further damage.

Well, that’s what my heart is telling my head.

My head believes her motives are more sinister, like she’s embarrassed to be photographed with me. And its beliefs worsen when she offers to be the photographer for the teenager.

The blonde eagerly nods before punching a hole in Emerson’s plan. “You should get in a handful of images, too. We can take selfies.”

“No, it’s fine.” Emerson brushes off her offer with a wave of her hand before she snatches the iPhone from her grasp and switches places with her.

She pretends she’s not knowledgeable about how iPhones operate, her ruse long enough to remove any unwanted photos from the teen’s album before she snaps a handful of images of us.

The teen’s excitement is infectious. Even the mother gets in a handful of photographs toward the end of our mini shoot. Her sourpuss expression never alters, but she takes part—unlike Emerson. Not once does she accept their numerous offers to be photographed with me.

Her constant denials nosedive my mood and have me grimacing in the last handful of snaps instead of smiling.