Page 47 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)
Mikhail
A s I enter the living room of my luxury penthouse, I adjust the cuffs of my tuxedo. The fabric feels cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that seeped into my trousers earlier today.
After handing me the Pants Jizzer title for the second time in a week, Emerson and I took our antics into the back seat. The confines were tight, but it made our make-out session the steamiest it’s ever been.
I’m hard again now recalling how Emerson worked my cock in and out of her mouth while kneeling on the driver’s seat, and the moans she released when I spilled my load down her throat.
How she took control while riding me from above in the back seat and how she didn’t push me away when my hunger to taste her again didn’t have me caring about our combined flavors.
We christened our new car appropriately for newlyweds, and I plan to do the same tonight while we’re chauffeured to my father’s gala in a stretch limousine.
Emerson is sitting on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her. She’s engrossed in the user manual that came with the electrostatic precipitator being installed in her mother’s pub next weekend.
She wants to learn how the precipitator will help lessen the chance of bar workers facing the horrifying disease her mother is enduring, but also a way to make it cheaper so the lesser-known establishments aren’t disadvantaged.
Sensing my presence, she says, “The setup seems pretty simple.” She doesn’t look up.
“It is more about the unit not recycling the air circulating throughout the establishment and filtering it instead.” She looks up, her eyes widening in confusion when she notices my swanky threads.
“Budgeting hacks get you that worked up, Marshmallow Man?”
I roll my eyes like I hate how close she has become with Zoya the past few days, before entering the den further.
Emerson looks smoking hot with flushed cheeks, mangled hair from giving me the best head of my life, and chapped lips, but since I need to be on my game tonight with members of my family in attendance, I think it is best that she changes.
When I say that to her, her confusion greatens. “Are we going somewhere?”
I can’t help but smile at her daftness. It is endearing how oblivious she can be sometimes, but tonight, we don’t have the luxury of time—not if I want her to spend the next hour naked and moaning beneath me.
“Tonight is the gala.” I check the time on the pompous timepiece I was gifted on my eighteenth birthday. “We need to leave soon.”
“The gala?” She swallows thickly. “I didn’t think we were still going, so I didn’t organize anything to wear.”
Emerson looks peeved when I say, “Then what were you searching for in the attic at Zelenolsk this morning?”
Stealing her chance to answer, I walk over to the coat closet and pull out the midnight-blue dress bag she was seeking.
Her eyes widen in surprise as she stands, stepping closer. Her eyes bounce between the dress and me for several seconds before they eventually settle on me.
“I’m glad you found it, but I still don’t think we should go.”
“Why?” I ask, talking through a tight jaw and the pain of my clipped nails digging into my palm from when I ball my hands into fists. “If it is about my father, I’ll?—”
“It’s not about him.”
“Then what is it?” I don’t mean to snap at her, but I’m truly confused. She sought out this event off a list of many. She approved it. So why is she backing out hours before the main event?
I know she’s endeavoring to prove she isn’t in this for the money, but this is about more than that.
It is something far, far greater than that.
I need my father to see I got the girl and the success, because then maybe he will accept one of my mother’s many requests to see him. He could be the key to the shackles holding back her recovery, but he’s refusing to see her.
I also want to commence crossing items off our list so my grandfather’s estate lawyers won’t have anything to fall back on if they try to deny our claim of matrimony.
Kolya’s return to Moscow ruffled feathers, and his whispers about our marriage being fraudulent have extended further than the gallows of Zelenolsk.
Emerson bites her lip before she sinks back toward the couch and takes a seat. Her eyes search mine, seeking any signs of leniency.
I usually hand it over in a nanosecond, but this time, I clutch to it, my resolve undogged.
“Em—”
“It’s just… this. Us. I’m not sure I want to take it to a wider audience yet.”
My heart sinks to my feet, and its quick drop is heard in my tone. “You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“No, Mikhail. Never.” She races across the glossed floorboards, reaching me in less than a heartbeat.
“I just don’t understand why you want to surround us with these people.
They’re the same people who tried to destroy us, the ones who pushed our heads under the water when we fell.
They are not the people we want in our inner circle. ”
“They’re not,” I agree, wholeheartedly understanding her concerns. “But they’re the people I need to see us.” The ones I crave approval from the most.
Since I can’t say that, I remind her that the lawyers from my grandfather’s estate will also be in attendance, so this is a good way to show unity.
She is mere months from a massive payday that will set up her family for life.
I don’t want anything to ruin it.
I didn’t lie when I said I would give this woman the world. Five hundred million dollars isn’t close to the summit I plan to spoil her with, but it is a good start.
Emerson sighs softly and looks away. “Another reason we shouldn’t go.”
When I pull away from her, shocked by the weakness of her excuse, she follows me.
“You don’t need your grandfather’s money, Mikhail.
You’re wealthy in your own right.” She thrusts her hand at the window displaying the twinkling city lights.
“You wouldn’t use a 1.2-million-dollar sports car as a sex chamber if you weren’t.
” Her teeth gnaw her bottom lip again, this time in seduction.
“So why don’t we spend the night in, watching movies and feasting off each other’s bodies instead? ”
“Because this isn’t just about me, Emmy, or the inheritance.
It is about us!” I shout, too worked up to speak rationally and maturely.
“And showing them fucks that they didn’t destroy everything you once loved about me!
” Emotions I’m not used to handling bubble to the surface faster than I can shut them down.
“That you loved me back then. You were just scared.”
She’s taken aback by my outburst but takes it in stride. “I was scared.”
“You still are.”
She shakes her head, sending red locks bouncing across her face.
“Then why don’t you want to do this? Why don’t you want to stand at my side and tell everyone that you’re finally mine?”
She searches my face again, her excavation successful this time.
This isn’t about the inheritance or the pittance we will receive for our attendance tonight.
It isn’t even about my mother. It is about replacing the memories in my head where I was mocked relentlessly for “not controlling my woman” and being a jilted groom before the subsequent downgrade to shitkicker in the Dokovic realm.
That’s what the naked stranger in my apartment last year was about. She was a gift from one of my father’s biggest benefactors. A “here, have my leftovers since you can’t get your own woman” taunt. It was a slap to the face.
Although one night won’t erase a decade of torment, having a woman as refined and beautiful as Emerson on my arm will be the sweetest revenge. It will end their games in an instant and have them green with envy.
My eyes float over my wife’s face when she asks, “How long do I have to get ready?”
“An hour.” I smile to announce my gratitude for her understanding before adding, “If you don’t want to fool around in the limo. Twenty minutes if you do.”
My cock twitches when she replies, “I’ll be ready in ten.”
After snatching the dress bag from my hand, Emerson heads to the master’s suite to change.
She enters for half a second before she doubles back.
The tension left lingering from my unsuspected moment of vulnerability slips away when she drinks in my tuxedo from the thread in the collar to the ankle of its pricy hem.
Her gawk is hungry, and I’m as equally starved when she says, “Pack spare pants. I’ll never get Aunt Marcelle off my back if you’re photographed in cum-stained trousers.”