Page 30 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

S tudio lights cast a warm glow over Mikhail and me as we follow the directions of the photographer.

She dictates the entire shoot from behind the lens, but my focus is more on Mikhail than her.

His subtle touches, the excruciating pressure of his fingers on my waist, hips, and ass, and the electricity bristling between us have kept my focus gripped on nothing but him for the past three hours.

And lust… that has been in abundance as well.

It’s been one nonstop chemistry pose after another.

I doubt any of the photographer’s suggested poses are suitable for public consumption.

The brushing of our bodies is an intimate dance—one I would give anything to take behind closed doors.

They grow more intimate the longer the shoot progresses, bordering on pornography.

Take our pose now, for example. I’m seated on a chair, and Mikhail is kneeling in front of me. They pulled the flare of my dress halfway up my thighs, and seconds later, Mikhail slipped his hands beneath the layers of lace.

We’re meant to be replicating the removal of the garter I left on the desk in the corner of my room, but it feels far more salacious than a newly wedded couple would be in front of their family and friends. Desire is hanging heavily in the air, and I can smell my bubbling arousal.

“Deeper, Mikhail. I don’t want to see a single thread of your dress shirt.”

Mikhail slides his hand up my thigh as per the photographer’s instructions, sending a shiver rolling down my spine. His fingertips tickle the skin high on my thigh, and my insides clench.

He never returned the underwear he forced me to remove at the boutique, and I’ve not had a minute to myself in hours to replace them.

Mikhail is only an inch away from discovering I am naked under the dress my mother made from my baptismal gown.

When my lust-crazed head forces a subtle arch in my back, I lower my gaze to Mikhail. The world fades away when our eyes connect. Once again, it is just the two of us lost in a moment, cherishing every touch, throb, and whispered moan.

“Yes. There. Perfect.”

The camera clicks, capturing images I will never approve for print. They’re too X-rated.

I’ll never recover if my mother sees my expression. Hence another reason I deleted the teen’s photos. I spun fast, but not fast enough for the eager snap of a fan.

The heat creeping across my cheeks descends to my chest when the photographer’s assistant says, “Isn’t the groom meant to remove the garter with his teeth?”

He flicks through a celebrity wedding bible the magazine’s editor demanded they fill as a salacious smirk stretches across Mikhail’s face. It tells me everything I need to know. He knows I am sans panties, and he has no intention of helping me out of the pickle he placed me in.

“Yes. Here it is.”

The photographer peers at the folder that’s so heavy it needs two hands to hold it up. “Oh… I love it.” Her eyes flicker for a handful of seconds before she adds, “But I think we should do it in a black-and-white film. It will give it a regal edge.”

She calls a ten-minute break so her assistant can fetch some old-style film from her van. The lighting crew, makeup artist, and stylist rush for the refreshments Chef placed out earlier.

In seconds, the den goes from a bustling hive of activity to almost isolated.

Only Mikhail and I remain.

Now is the perfect time for me to replace my undergarments. But for the life of me, I can’t move. Mikhail’s gaze is hooded, and his hands are still under my dress.

I’d be a fool if I were to walk now.

Mikhail tsks me. It sounds as playful as the glint firing through his icy eyes. “Emerson Morozov, what will your momma say when she finds out you did an entire shoot while not wearing any panties?”

I reply with as much sass as he’s issuing. “She’d probably ask me who stole them and then demand an update on their removal.”

Mikhail throws his head back and laughs. It does wild things to my insides. “I said what would your momma say, not your aunt Marcelle.”

“Tomato, tomato. ”

His laughter increases, but it does little to ease the tension. His hands are still on me. Not even a tsunami could put out the fire raging in my stomach. As his fingertips creep closer to the heat making my brain a hazy mess, he asks, “How would you answer her question?”

I take a moment to contemplate before choosing the honesty route, hopeful it will see me rewarded. “I removed them to save them from getting soddened, but someone interrupted me before I could reimagine my wildest dream.”

Mikhail’s deliriously handsome face and fingers inch closer while he murmurs, “Reimagined?”

I nod, the burning of my throat too incinerating to speak.

He will never let me off so easily. He angles his head, sending a dark lock falling across his eye before he arches a brow in silent questioning.

I wait until the tension becomes excruciating before whispering, “Because once magic is mastered, it can only be reimagined. Though sometimes it is pointless. There’s only one version of The Shawshank Redemption for a reason. Why?—”

“Fuck with perfection.”

I nod, surprised by the heavy sentiment in his eyes when he speaks a statement he once regularly used.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, but once he eventually speaks, it is better than I expected. “Does anything achieved in ten minutes qualify as perfection?”

“Depends.”

His deep rumble rolls over my lips when he asks, “On?”

“On whom you’ve awarded the ten minutes to.” I twist my lips to hide their painful furl. “A random stranger with no personal connection whatsoever would probably underestimate the significance of those ten minutes, but someone who clings to every single second would cherish every one of them.”

I stop seeking something to focus on when Mikhail says, “What if she was the only one you’ve ever given those ten minutes to? What would she say?”

I can’t tell if I’m angry or confused by my tone. “If you’re trying to make out you’ve not been with anyone since me, you need to teach the photographer’s assistant how to whisper. He?—”

“I’m not talking about sex, Emmy. I’m talking about this.

Us. Now.” He brushes his hand down the cleft of my pussy, stealing my thoughts.

“A man kneeling in front of his woman.” The way he says “his” floods my veins with lust. “They say you only kneel to those above you, that it is degrading to do it for any old fool.” The sentiment I mentioned earlier is nothing compared to the emotions flaring through his eyes now.

“I kneeled in front of you every day, Emmy. You and only you. No one else has had my respect enough for me to kneel in front of them.”

I want to sob but hold it back, needing answers. “Then why did you le?—”

I want to scream when we’re interrupted again.

“All right. Break’s over! Let’s get this shoot wrapped up.”