Page 9 of The Pakhan's Arranged Bride

When we get to the reception, we are welcomed as Mr. and Mrs. Karamazov. Hearing it announced out loud makes my chest swell.

I proudly hold her closer, and she glances at me with a smile that everyone will mistake for love between us.

She’s laughing, enjoying herself, as a bride should be doing on her wedding day.

She’s the perfect wife, and I’m the proud husband, watching the other men stare in jealousy.

Each of the guests she interacts with immediately adores her. Her charisma is infectious. Her cheerful nature makes it easy to be around.

But she and I have been caught in the whirlwind of this day and when we sit down for the first course of our dinner, this is the first time I’m really able to talk to her.

And this is when the cracks in her perfect smile begin to show.

“How was the flight to Las Vegas?” I ask.

“It was comfortable, thank you,” she answers politely.

“And are you happy with the wedding?”

“It was perfect. Really gorgeous,” she nods.

There is a stiffness in each answer. She’s saying what I want to hear, she’s showing polite interest in the conversation, but something seems off.

“All of your belongings have been delivered to my mansion. You will be very comfortable there. It’s away from the wildness of the city, a peaceful recluse just outside of Las Vegas.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it.” She smiles tightly.

Where is her bubbly persona she’s been flashing around all evening?

Is she just nervous?

Even on the video call she was friendlier, hinting at a more playful personality. She’s so formal now.

In front of the guests everything looks perfect, but I expected more warmth in these private moments.

The first course is served, and she continues to make small talk. I’m probably reading too much into it. She’s nervous. There are a lot of people here. A lot of cameras. There’s a lot going on, and she doesn’t even know me.

If she’s not nervous, then she’s making it very clear to me that this marriage is strictly a business arrangement. Her polite professionalism a clear message.

I hope that’s not the case.

***

“Will the couple please come to the dance floor for their first dance?” the MC announces, and I stand, holding my hand out to her. She places her delicate fingers in my hand and lets me lead the way.

The lights dim and soft spotlights move over the dance area. Little glittering lights make it look like it’s snowing around as I pull her close against my chest. I slip my hand around herwaist, feeling the curves of her body, her full hips and all of those perfect dips.

Music plays and we move together, she looks up at me, and I’m caught in the brightness of her eyes. Heat builds between us. My body is on fire against hers.

Her breathing catches and she bites her lower lip.

The tension grows as I drift my hand up her back, cupping the back of her head, tilting her to the side and watching her body arch in my embrace as I dip her backwards. My free hand brushes from her throat down between her breasts and over her stomach before I pull her to her feet again.

Her cheeks are flushed, her lips pink and parted.

I can see the desire in her eyes. My body is screaming for her.

“How about a real kiss?” someone shouts from the crowd. “Not like the church kiss. We want a real one. True love’s kiss.”