Page 27 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)
Emerson
Mikhail has never been good at masking his feelings, though he tries his best now. The way his eyes never fully meet mine while instructing me to be careful while scaling over another grime-soaked boulder announces he is attempting to re-erect the walls our kiss lowered.
When he holds out his hand in offering at the opening of the trail, I try to convince myself that he’s more concerned about me slipping again than other matters, but uncertainty about everything lingers during our trek back to his bike.
Unlike our climb, our descent is done in silence. We walk back to the semi-isolated lot, the sound of the waterfall cresting behind us fading as rapidly as my hope that I’ll make it out of this arrangement in one piece.
Old feelings have been bubbling at the surface since the will reading, but they’ve reached the boiling point now. Our make- out session at the crest of the waterfall was too hot for them not to bubble over.
“Here. Put this on. I don’t want you getting sick.” Mikhail removes his leather jacket before draping it over my shoulders and pulling my hair out of the collar.
After stuffing my arms into the openings, I pull his coat in, loving that it smells like us, before asking, “What about you? Won’t you be cold?”
He smiles like his eyes aren’t gauging the honesty of my fretful tone before he murmurs, “I’ll be fine.”
After hooking his leg over his bike, he assists me onto the back.
Since I’m wearing his coat, he can’t warm my hands in its pockets this time, so he tucks them under his shirt instead.
The bumps on his abs and a handful of felonious hairs tickle my fingertips when he kicks over his bike and revs the engine.
It switches some of my worries back to lust, but only a smidge.
“Ready?” I feel Mikhail’s question more than I hear it. That’s how close our bodies are. It is like we’re back at the crest of the waterfall, but Mikhail is the wrong way around.
Our eyes align in the side mirror when I jerk up my chin.
The roaring of Mikhail’s engine fills the ride to the bustling metropolis with adrenaline. But my thoughts are elsewhere. I wonder if our make-out session meant as much to Mikhail as it did to me or if the memories were too potent for him to move past without trying to rehash them?
I’d like to think it is the former. Our contract encourages public displays of affection, but no one else was with us at the waterfall before we were interrupted. It was just us and memories I’m praying never become haunted.
The wind rushing past us ensures my cheeks are dry by the time Mikhail parks his custom bike in front of a fancy boutique. The town, a hundred miles from Zelenolsk Manor, is bustling and extremely high-end.
Only the wealthy live in this part of the country, and the locals’ faces show it when Mikhail dismounts his bike to help me.
His snatch-and-pluck maneuver saved me from a life-ending fall, but his jeans weren’t so lucky to escape the carnage.
They’re stained in the back, as murky as he made the front of my jeans when he kissed me senselessly while fondling my breasts.
The reminder of the chemistry brewing between us during our make-out session assures me it wasn’t an act. You can’t manufacture electricity like that on a whim. It takes months to inspire and years to perfect.
With my heart not as heavy as it was moments ago, I shadow Mikhail into Wilfred Iwona’s invitation-only boutique. The atmosphere is lively and welcoming. Staff greet us with warm smiles, and grungy music fills the air.
The boutique is overflowing with racks of beautiful clothes, each piece more stunning than the last. As I take in the impeccable stitch of a ballgown that costs more than my first car, I overhear the sales clerk telling Mikhail that Nesy had a family emergency, so Wilfred will assist us today.
I almost pee my pants. Wilfred is Russia’s number-one designer.
She distributes her garments globally and clothes many celebrities.
But I try to play it cool. The one time I expressed bewilderment about someone’s obvious wealth saw me shunted from Mikhail’s family’s life with a “you’re not worthy” endorsement stamped on my forehead.
“Wilfred shall arrive shortly. Until then, you’re welcome to peruse the garments on offer.”
Nodding, Mikhail removes his wallet from his muddy jeans and then hands a fancy black Amex to the clerk before he joins me in the central hub of the boutique.
There’s still a snippet of pain in his eyes, but I try to brush it aside when he asks, “See anything you like?”
“Um…” I scan the outfits, seeking one with a price tag under a thousand dollars. The closest I get is three thousand. It is hefty but well below its counterparts. “I like this one. With the right accessories, it could work for a benefactor event.”
Mikhail screws up his nose, and it is a fight not to smile.
The dress is cheap because, unlike its fancy companions, it is hideously unflattering.
A potato sack would show off my curves more than that outfit.
“What about that one?” Mikhail nudges his head to the dress my eyes landed on the instant we entered. It is gorgeous. The dress features a detailed bust, a flared skirt, and a dangerously unique split. It is a dress you’d expect a movie star to wear during the premiere of her movie.
“It’s lovely, but…” My reply trails off when Mikhail acts as if I only spoke two words.
He plucks the dress with a five-figure price tag off the solo rack designed to showcase its flawless design before he hotfoots it toward the dressing room.
“Mikhail—”
I’m cut off again, with words this time.
“I can still taste you on my mouth. Now is not the time to argue with me, Ember.” He twists to face me, his tongue stroking his lips as if seeking a morsel of our kiss on his mouth.
“I also don’t need another reason for people to rubberneck.
Imagining you in this dress”—he waves around the dress he’s mentioning—“is giving them more reasons to arrest me for public indecency.”
I’m lost, but mercifully, he’s quick to point out the reason for the bodies camped outside the boutique, gawking.
He’s hard. I’m not talking about an outline that might give my grandma a heart attack.
I’m talking about a bulge not even the frumpy outfit I tried to convince him to purchase could conceal.
Is he hard because we’re in a boutique that screams sex and sensuality, or because he is still as worked up as I am over our grind-up?
When his tongue delves out for the second time in the past minute, I steer toward the latter.
Warmth blooms between my legs, and because I am forever weak when it comes to this man, its heat has me walking toward Mikhail with my hips swinging and my eyes full of lust.
For just a moment, I relish the electricity crackling between us. I allow it to build my confidence to a point it will never topple before I snatch the dress out of his hand and enter the dressing room before him.
I didn’t think my plan through. A curtain forms the changing room’s door. There’s no lock. I’ve not even hooked Mikhail’s pick onto a hanger at the side of the ample space before his imposing aura pinches the last of the air in my lungs.
“What are you doing?” I ask, attempting to portray that I have some sort of morality when it comes to this man.
His predatory stalk flashes up images of his eagerness to remove my jeans only an hour ago, and they make me wet.
I’m not the only one feeding off the lust brewing in the air. Mikhail’s reply almost crests the wave in my stomach. “With a sixteen-thousand-dollar purchase price, you can be assured that I’m going to make sure it is the perfect fit before handing over a penny.”
I love his attempts to squash the last bit of tension between us with playfulness, but I can’t help but tease him. “Isn’t that Wilfred’s job?”
He stares straight at me while replying, “Usually.” His lips twist as he shakes his head. “But not when it comes to you.” When his words freeze me, he tilts his head and hikes up one side of his chunky lips. “If you’re shy, I can twist away?—”
I shut him up by unbuttoning my jeans. The hiss of my zipper as I lower it matches the whistle that rustles through his teeth when I peel my jeans down my thighs while maintaining eye contact.
I’m not watching him solely to prove my confidence will only ever surge in his presence instead of wilting. I am also doing it so I don’t miss a single expression that crosses his gorgeous face.
Mikhail’s eyes speak a million words before his mouth articulates a single one.
Every nerve in my body ignites when a deep murmur sounds from his chest as he takes in my printed underwear.
“Sunflowers.” He lifts his hooded eyes to mine. “Fitting.” He rakes his teeth over his lower lip, augmenting the throbs hitting my clit. “Though I prefer daisies. They’re delicate and sweet.”
They’re also the flowers he ordered to be grown across acres of land when he proposed.
The planning of his proposal proves it wasn’t a quick-winded decision. It took months to implement and made me truly believe he asked for my hand in marriage because he wanted me to be his wife and the mother of his children.
Vying to ignore the heartache of our lost years, I toe off my shoes and shimmer out of my jeans.
“They’re my favorite print too, but they seem to have gone missing.
” His eyes flare, but his mouth remains tight-lipped.
“You need to give them back. In my hurry to pack, I only packed five pairs of panties.”
I struggle to keep up when he tosses out mixed signals. “That leaves four pairs too many.”
I assumed his daisies reference was to maim my heart. Only now am I wondering if he is attempting to conjure happy memories like our trip to the waterfall instigated?
I pretend I’m not being swallowed by confusion. My skills are top-notch… until I bend over to gather my jeans from the floor.