Page 28 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)
I don’t bend with my knees. With a flourish, I pop down in a way Elle Woods would be proud. I thrust my rear end out and cock my hip, giving Mikhail a bird’s-eye view of the area he made moist during our grind-up.
It is an extremely unladylike poise that has Mikhail growling like he’s a beast under attack. You’d need superhuman eye strength to see through the minute crack our entrance to the changing room caused, but Mikhail acts as if it is as gaping as the hole he left in my heart when he left.
He rushes forward to cover me with his body so fast that the briskness of his long strides cools my overheated skin.
I moan in appreciation, loving its relief.
Mikhail doesn’t hear my moan in the way I intended. I understand why. I’m only good at lying when I am trying to convince myself it is for the greater good.
When Mikhail’s heated breaths batter my earlobe, I know I should walk away, disappear into the disappointment that will inevitably surface like it did when our grind-up was busted, but for the life of me, I can’t.
My heart hasn’t beaten at this rhythm for over a decade, and it was never as low as it is thudding now.
After checking that we’re still alone, Mikhail steps us forward until I’m barricaded by the massive mirror and him before his hand skates around the front of my body.
He splays his hand across my stomach before slowly lowering it.
As he hooks his thumb into the top of my cotton panties, his eyes lock with mine in the mirror.
I panic I’m not expressing myself appropriately when the crack of elastic settling back into place sounds through my ears a nanosecond before the sting of my panties snapping back into place slaps my skin.
It doesn’t linger for long.
“Give them to me.”
“What?” I push out slowly, acting daft.
Mikhail would never let me follow the I’m-just-a-silly-girl ruse.
“Give them to me,” he repeats, his tone neither stern nor demanding. It is more hopeful than anything.
“I…” I stop, swallow, then try again. “We…”
Out of excuses and honestly not strong enough to deny this man, I hook my fingers around the waistband of my panties and tug them down. My pace is slower this time, more teasing, and my eye contact is unbroken.
Heat burns through me when my arch to free the damp material from my ankles causes my ass to brush against Mikhail’s groin.
He’s the thickest he has ever been.
I grip my panties in my hand, almost wringing them of the wetness they would contain if they were still pressed against my vagina, before asking, “Now what?”
Mikhail licks his lips as his eyes slowly float up my body. “Now your bra.”
“Why—”
The hand on my hip squeezes, and I lose all cognitive thoughts.
I pull down the straps of my bra, roll the hooks from the back to the front, then unlatch them. I usually remove my bras by unlatching them from the back, but since that would place unwanted distance between Mikhail and me, I changed things up.
Mikhail’s hiss is silent this time. I don’t need to hear it to know of its existence, though. It ruffles the hairs on my nape and brings the wave in my stomach close to cresting.
As my bra falls to the floor, Mikhail stares at me as if it is the first time he’s seen me naked, and his hooded watch makes it seem as if I am worth millions of dollars.
“Like a fine wine,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper.
He drinks me in for several long minutes before he plucks the dress from its hanger as if it is worthless and then carefully slides it over my head. The brushes of his hands as he guides the delicate material down my body doubles the tension firing between us.
I’m moments from being set ablaze when the back of his hand brushes past my aching pussy. It isn’t solely his touch setting me on fire, but how he treats me as if I am worth far more than the pricy gown he’s assisting me into.
He once told me that a man’s wealth should never be calculated by the funds in his bank account. That true wealth can only be measured by the memories in his heart.
He is making true on his statement now.
Mikhail’s eyes lift to mine when I whisper, “They’re not selling dresses here.
They are selling fantasies.” A familiar glint sparks in his eyes.
“Fantasies of what could happen in this dress. How someone puts it on and takes it off. The fantasy of being looked at like you are looking at me now. That alone makes the steep price tag seem worth it. But they’ve failed to realize you’d still look at me the same way even in a thrift store–purchased garment. ”
His lack of retort assures me of this, not to mention the thickness behind me.
The love in his eyes, the pure admiration, has me so desperate for answers I act impulsively, like my heart’s fractures don’t matter. “Why?”
Why did you leave?
Why give me enough to hook me for life with no desire to reel me in?
Why do you look at me as if I broke your heart when it was the opposite?
Mikhail’s furrowed brows convince me that he heard the words my confused and broken heart refuse to express, but before he can answer me, we’re interrupted by a likely source since this is her boutique.
“Wow. You are the exact picture I envisioned while designing that dress.”