Page 44 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Mikhail

A s the last call for drinks bellows over Ember’s packed floor, I glance over at Emerson.

She’s mixing a cocktail, her skills still as apparent now as they were when I first laid eyes on her.

The shock of her unexpected confession last night has worn off, and now it feels like no time has passed since we eagerly waited for the final call to be issued.

We move in sync, passing bottles and glasses back and forth, our hands brushing occasionally but with purpose. Each touch sends a spark through me, and I can’t help but smile like a simp.

“Nice pour,” I say, leaning in close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume that’s barely noticeable through our combined scents. “Have you done this before?”

Emerson grins, her eyes sparking with mischief. “Once or twice.” She hands a patron a frothy drink before twisting to face me. “You’re not too bad at mixing cocktails yourself… for a stiff who sits behind a desk all day.”

I scoff, but there’s no real disdain behind it. I have a hands-on approach with all my establishments, preferring to serve alcohol than order it. Not even counting profits comes close to the joy of working behind the bar and the friendship each shift creates.

It is easy banter, and it’s comforting to fall back into it with Emerson.

The bar is a constant buzz over the next hour, but we handle the rush with ease.

Our chemistry is undeniable—as strong as our work ethic.

The patrons seem to sense it too. They tip generously and linger at our side of the bar until the bouncer announces the bar is closed before guiding them outside.

“That was insane,” Emerson murmurs, tossing a dishcloth onto the battered wood she just finished wiping.

“I haven’t worked this hard since…” Her eyes flicker as heat creeps up her neck.

Her thoughts are far from her family’s pub.

They are solely focused on me and the numerous hookups we’ve had over the past twenty-four hours.

I toss my dishcloth into her face, momentarily distilling her lusty expression so I’m not forced to scrub toilets, before calling it a night. When I twist to face Lynx, he reads my mind before I can speak a word. His head bob is all the approval I need to snatch my bike keys from under the bar.

As much as I have enjoyed the past thirty-six hours, an almost cracked leather couch is only a temporary spooning station. We need room to move, room to explore. I need hours to reimagine the best sex I’ve ever had, and I know the perfect place for us to do that.

Emerson’s smile is infectious when I twist to face her. It is cold as fuck outside, but she’d rather risk pneumonia than give up the opportunity to get on my bike again. She will even set aside her unquenchable thirst to fuck for another hour or two.

Although the winds have settled, I still assist Emerson into a wool-lined coat and a beanie before guiding our walk to the parking lot at the back of Ember’s.

Soon, we’re speeding through the city streets with her hands in my pockets to keep them warm, and her body pressed firmly against mine. Although Zelenolsk Manor is closer, I take a left at the first T-intersection after Ember’s instead of a right.

This, Emerson, is home, so it doesn’t feel right to take her to the one place where I’ve always felt like a stranger.

We arrive at my penthouse apartment a little after 2 a.m. Emerson is quiet when I lead her inside the sleek and modern building with floor-to-ceiling windows offering stunning views of the city. But she takes in the space, her expression curious and too adorable not to respond to it.

As the elevator doors snap shut, I grip her sweatshirt and tug her close before sealing my mouth over hers. I kiss her for several long seconds, tasting the meal we shared earlier and a flavor that is uniquely her.

It is a rough, needy embrace, but my remembrance of the last time someone got frisky in this elevator sees me pulling back before I’ve had close to my fill.

In case you’re wondering, I was not a participant in that romp. I simply instigated it.

After scanning my thumb on the fingerprint scanner, I push open the door of my penthouse apartment. Emerson enters first, her eyes wide with eagerness and a look I’ve missed the past ten years. She’s jealous. Why? I’m not sure. I’d just recognize that expression anywhere.

I thank god for a woman not afraid to speak her mind when Emerson asks, “How many girls have you brought here?”

“None,” I answer, meeting her gaze. “Except my sister. But she doesn’t count. Right?”

“Depends.”

Bile works up from my stomach to my throat as I silently grill her.

How can my sister not count?

Her expression is a cross of peeved and humored when she says, “Andrik and Zoya drove me to Ember’s. Zoya shared a handful of stories during the commute.”

I cringe while recalling how I handed Zoya my number and the keys to my penthouse last year. Cut me some slack. At the time, I didn’t know she was my sister. I had an inkling she was someone special, but it was in a platonic, non-creepy way.

There’s only one woman I’ve had an instant obsession with.

She is standing in front of me with furrowed brows.

After placing down an ornament on the mantel, Emerson twists to face me. “Did Zoya tell you what happened that night?”

“Not in explicit detail, but I got the gist.”

She smiles at the disgust on my face before pacing closer. “Not the parts that include Andrik… though you’re more than welcome to share if you need to get them off your chest.” I screw up my nose, sending her laughter echoing throughout the penthouse. “More the events leading up to the main event.”

“They’re just as X-rated,” I say with a laugh, willing to do anything to stop me from being sick.

Emerson continues as if I never spoke. “The scene where they arrived at your apartment to a woman on her knees, naked and eager.”

I step back, shocked. “What?” When she nods, I speak at a million miles an hour. “A woman was here, in my penthouse, naked?”

Her nod continues. “And posed in an extremely submissive way.”

She couldn’t have shocked me more if she had slapped me.

“I swear on my mother’s grave…” My words trail off when I recall I can no longer use that analogy.

My mother is alive. Not close to living, but very much alive.

“I’ve never invited anyone here. Except Zoya, but she doesn’t count, and it wasn’t like that…

” I struggle to finish what I had planned to be a lengthy plea when I realize it isn’t jealousy now burning Emerson’s cheeks. It is understanding.

What. The. Fuck.

“Why aren’t you pissed?”

She saunters close, her swinging hips effortlessly seducing me. “Why would I be? You said you had no clue she was here.”

“And you believe me?”

I’m confident I am dreaming when Emerson nods. “Yep.” While smiling at my shocked expression, she nudges her head to the kitchen. “Hungry?”

Too stunned to speak, I nod.

“Good.” I’m hard in an instant when she reaches for the crotch of my jeans and lowers the zipper. “Because once you’ve finished dipping my calories into the negative, you’ll need to feed me.”

She pushes me back until I land on the sofa with a thud before she frees my cock from my pants and arrows her lips toward the head.

Hours later, sexually gorged and in a carbohydrate coma, Emerson lies in the crook of my arm, rolling the coin I stole from the jukebox before Lynx could bank it through her fingers. She’s naked—how she should be every damn day of her life—and a satisfied smirk is on her face.

Although I’m still curious about her earlier confession, I can get answers about the stranger in my house by requesting the video footage covering every inch of the penthouse floor. Only one person can answer this snippet of curiosity.

“Does that mean your mom knows about us?” I nudge my head to the coin frozen between her index finger and middle finger before lowering my eyes to her sweat-drenched face. We ate more than we fucked the past hour, but dessert is strenuous when the ultimate treat comes in body parts.

Rolling over, Emerson pops her chin onto my naked pec before peering up at me. I smile like a pig in a muddy hole when she jerks up her chin.

“I couldn’t give them all the details, much to Aunt Marcelle’s disgrace, but they got the gist of it.

” She hits me with a frisky wink that shouldn’t make me hard but does.

Her aunt Marcelle is the type of woman who will put a glass to a bedroom wall to make sure she doesn’t miss a single moan.

She is why Emerson and I spent so much of our time at the pub.

The fact she didn’t drill Emerson is shocking. Marcelle lives precariously through her niece.

I learn the cause of her sudden change of demeanor when Emerson whispers, “Andrik isn’t a man you can have a womanly conversation around.” She huffs, blowing my hair away from my eye. “Zoya may get away with it, but the rest of us are a little wary.”

Words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and they’re shocking. “He’s more bark than bite of late. Almost a pussycat.” Curious, I ask, “Did you ask him to drive you to Ember’s, or did he volunteer?”

“Um…” Her focus is shifty, and it places me on the back foot. Emerson can’t lie even if it would save her life, so I’m a little put off by her sudden wish to be shady.

“It isn’t a hard question, Em. He either offered or you asked.”

“He offered,” she answers, her tone low.

I rub her arm, assuring her I have no intention of fighting with her for at least a decade unless it is in foreplay, before asking, “Why was he near Zelenolsk?”

I assume to kick my ass for calling his wife sweetheart, but learn otherwise when Emerson answers, “Zoya had an appointment with her OBGYN.” She’s telling the truth. It’s just what she’s not saying I pay the most attention to.

“And?”

It takes a beat for her to reply. “And then they came over.” Her eyes flicker as if she is recalling a memory instead of trying to make up one.

“We talked, and during that conversation, I realized how much he cares for you. How much they both care about you. So, naturally, they were the first people I sought help from when I needed to find you. Andrik immediately offered to take me anywhere I needed to go…”—her eyes gloss with tears—“as long as I was going to you.”

Andrik’s empathetic side is still foreign, and it leaves me speechless.

As do the words Emerson speaks next. “He will never forget how you helped him when you were a child, Mikhail. And how you placed your life on the line for his wife and unborn child.” She circles the bullet wounds in my stomach, accessories I never had when we dated, before her focus shifts to an area rapidly gaining its own pulse.

“And neither will I. You make me burn, Coal. You are the reason I exist.” I can’t think of anything but her mouth on me, anywhere , when she circles her hand around my shaft and jerks it a handful of times.

“So can we please stop focusing on everyone else and for once focus on us?”

“Christ,” I bite out when her tongue treks across the slit in the crown of my cock a second after I dip my chin.