Page 9 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

A s I scan my eyes over a private jet gleaming in the late afternoon sun, I stuff the EpiPen I hid in my bra into the bottom of my knapsack. My pettiness is pressing heavily on my chest, but the confusion swirling in my mind is even more overwhelming.

I’m so confused. From what I’ve read, Mikhail is wealthy in his own right. He doesn’t need his grandfather’s money. So why did he marry me as if he’s desperate for some coin?

I guess someone who’s never had money can explain its allure. Before my mother got sick, my family lived comfortably, but it was never at this level of wealth. The private jet idling next to us is flashy, as sparkling as the diamonds now caressing my ring finger.

The taste of peanut butter lingers in my mouth as a shadow casts over half my torso.

Mikhail is standing at my door, preparing to open it.

I can see the hurt in his eyes, the confusion, but since those emotions are barely visible behind the arrogance of a man who left his wife standing at the altar for the second time in his life, I pretend not to notice them.

I refuse to let him blindside me like he did when he threatened to defile me on the altar of my family’s long-serving church.

It pains me to admit, but I swallowed the bait he threw out without chewing it. My head was so airy from his closeness that the only thought that crossed it when he walked away was how I could deny him again and force him to make true on his threat.

The lightbulb only switched back on when the priest coughed, announcing I’d been dumped again— after our vows this time.

Mikhail’s walkout told me everything I needed to know.

Our marriage is a sham. It is a ploy for payment.

Only a fool would act as if it were anything else.

So, instead of waiting for my husband to open my door and lift me into his arms like a groom would to a bride, I throw it open so fast that it skims past his crotch, almost castrating him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Emmy! You almost took out my cock.”

“Only almost? Boohoo .” I glare at him, warning him what will happen if he calls me Emmy again, before I march toward the jet.

“Where are you going, Emmy?” Mikhail’s shout cuts my stomps in half before he quickly recovers. “Emerson? Our ride is that way.”

He hooks his thumb to the left, and my heart falls to my shoes.

The deathtrap he’s pointing to isn’t a jet.

It’s a sardine can.

I talk through the lump in my throat. “I’m not getting in… whatever the hell that is.”

“That”—Mikhail smirks, loving my uncomfortable squirms—“is a Cessna 152.” Since I’m still lost, he adds, “It’s a plane. It just has two seats instead of dozens.”

“One.” I point to him. “Two.” Now it’s my chest’s turn to be jabbed. “Three.” I draw his focus to a random pilot, hoping he knows what the hell he’s doing, even in a baby plane. “You’re one seat short. I guess I better stay here.”

I’d sit on my suitcase if I had one. Mikhail’s one-hour demand left hardly any wriggle room.

It takes twenty-eight minutes to travel from the bar to my mother’s house and another twenty-eight minutes from my house to the church.

I spent the remaining four minutes assuring my family that my departure wasn’t forever.

From the hardness of Mikhail’s cock when he flattened our bodies together, I believe his tight schedule was on purpose.

If he’s hopeful a lack of luggage will have me prancing butt-naked around his fancy-schmancy new mansion he inherited when we tied the knot, he’s shit out of luck.

I’ll wear a potato sack if that’s all on offer. Mikhail knows this better than anyone.

My eyes snap to him when he says, “There are only two seats because there are only two travelers.”

I glare at him like he’s grown a second head when he accepts a flight manifest from a man in a pilot’s uniform before he slips into the cockpit of the baby plane.

“He can’t be serious,” I murmur to anyone listening when he fiddles with buttons and instruments like he’s about to take this bird into the air.

“He doesn’t know how to fly a plane, does he?

” My curiosity is too high to discount, so I tilt to the side and shout, “Do you know what you’re doing?

I swear there are laws where you must disclose that you’re a trainer pilot to intended passengers before luring them into a deathtrap. ”

Mikhail laughs, and it does crazy things to my insides. “Come on, Emmy. Don’t act like this will be the first time I’ve made you float between the clouds.”

I snarl at him, but that is the beginning and end of my reply.

I’m too busy struggling not to squeeze my thighs together from how sexy he looks in his broke man’s plane.

The headset has pulled his messy locks away from his face, showcasing his panty-wetting bone structure; the microphone sits intimately close to his plump, meaty lips, and he’s rolled the sleeves of his business shirt to his elbows, exposing his cut arms.

He also didn’t lie.

Some days, it took hours for me to float back to earth.

Mikhail’s orgasms don’t float stars in front of your eyes.

They send you into space.

Since I’m struggling to keep a rational head with several feet between us, I make an excuse to leave. “I’m scared of?—”

My phone pings, interrupting me.

Tears form in my eyes when I read the message.

Mom:

You’re probably still in the air, so you won’t get this until you land, but I needed you to know first.

The document attached to her message announces her inclusion into the program that could save her life has been approved.

My fingers move over my phone screen at a million miles an hour.

Me:

This is amazing.

I try to hold back, but it isn’t in my nature.

Me:

But why is this the first I’ve heard about this program?

Her message pops up instantly, which makes me suspicious she had it pre-typed.

Mom:

Because acceptance wasn’t guaranteed, I kept my application quiet until I was sure they would accept me. I have some trial medication to take now before an in-house consultation in four weeks. You should be back in time, but if not, no bother. Aunt Marcelle has offered to hold down the fort.

I wipe at a rogue tear clinging to my cheek. It smears across my phone screen when I reply.

Me:

I’ll be back in time. But…

I stare at the last word I typed for eternity before I delete it and then stab the send button.

It takes my mother a lot longer to reply this time.

Mom:

Okay. I will call you later to tell you more.

I assume she’s rushing off because she still believes aircrafts crash if anyone dares to switch on their phones midflight, but my assumption changes when I receive another message.

Mom:

Wynne is being called in by Doctor Clestonv.

My fingers fly even faster than before, yet my good luck message sits unread while I watch my phone, hoping for a notification.

Defeated and somewhat nauseous, I stow my phone away before focusing back on the task at hand. My face still shows my wish to flee. I just can’t bring myself to do it now. The very man I’m endeavoring to run from paid for the trial program that could save my mother’s life.

The reminder has me shouting, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Are we talking about flying a plane or making you come?” I roll my eyes, and Mikhail laughs. “I’ve got you for both if you’ll get your damn ass in the plane.”

When he nudges his head, soundlessly demanding me into his toy plane, I accept the hand being held out by a tarmac crew member before endeavoring to slot into the seat next to Mikhail.

I enter tits first, and then legs.

My ass is the last body part stripped from view.

Yes, it is as awkward as you’re imagining, but I felt the heat of the crew member’s watch, and the only time I refuse to not make Mikhail realize what he threw away is when I’m six feet under.

“I’ll get it,” Mikhail snaps out when the crewman attempts to fasten my harness, beginning the task at my chest.

Mikhail rips the straps out of the crewman’s hands while narrowing his eyes at him. His response starts a point tally system that was reset over a decade ago.

Point one, Emmy.

Furious heat teems through me when Mikhail tugs hard on the restraints a second after latching my harness. It paints my dress to my skin and exposes my body’s response to his closeness.

My nipples are erect and begging to be touched, and although enough lace covers my sticky panties, the scent lingering in the air announces my aroused state.

Mikhail flicks his eyes to my breasts for the quickest second before he returns them to the many instruments and buttons in front of him.

His effortless expression and ease with preparing the plane for takeoff announce this wasn’t a last-minute decision to stain my underwear. He knows what he’s doing and loves my panicked squirms as much as I do his jealous glares.

After requesting permission from the control tower to approach the runway, the plane jerks toward the landing strip. Partway there, Mikhail nudges his head to something behind my left shoulder. “If you want to talk during the flight, you’ll need to put on your headset.”

He says your like they’re exactly that. Mine.

My throat grows scratchy when I tug on the strap holding the headset in place, and it tumbles into my lap. The headband has a name etched on its side.

Emmy.

While fighting back a sob that he customized my headset, I free it from its cables before placing the speakers over my ears.

I can’t hear anything but the raging beat of my heart. I discover why when I peer down at my lap. The jack remains unplugged.

Mikhail and I reach for the port simultaneously. Despite my solemn vow to hate this man until the end of time, sparks jolt up my arm when our fingers brush.

It is so electrifying that I remain frozen while Mikhail mics me up.

Seconds later, his heavy breaths sound out of the speakers, dotting my skin with goose bumps, before his deep, commanding voice dampens my panties. “Can you hear me?”

I nod, untrusting of my voice not to betray the excitement of my body.