She removed her hideous trench coat and her cock-thickening lace dress, leaving only mismatched boyleg panties and a semi-padded bra.
She’s practically naked, and I’m seconds from humping the air like a dog in heat.
Against the screaming protests of my head, I drag my eyes down her body in a slow and dedicated sweep. As I drink in a body too worthy for any man, my dick thickens so fast it is painful, the crown leaking pre-cum.
From the tiny bow at the top of her panties to the loose thread in her bra, everything about her makes my body convulse. She’s a fucking masterpiece, and since I didn’t stumble into a skit not prepared for me, I’m granted minutes to marvel at every perfect stroke.
My prolonged gawk makes my instant obsession with this woman worse. It also reminds me of the first time we locked eyes.
I wanted to fuck her hard back then, and I wanted it to be filthy.
The same is true now.
Angry sex is almost on par with jealousy sex.
Both are out of this world good.
But that’s all it would be. Rough, angry, I-fucking-hate-that-I-still-love-you sex. Then she’d be gone. Never to be seen.Again.
The circled monetary amount on the contract dumped on our marital bed announces this, not to mention Emerson’s let’s-get-it-over-with expression.
This is worse than angry sex. Desperation sex is the lowest on the scale, and the one thing I refuse to do with anyone, much less with a woman I once cared about.
A woman I still care about.
So, after forcing my eyes to the floor, I deliver two words I never thought I’d speak in front of the equivalent of a walking wet dream. “Get dressed.”
Chapter 11
Emerson
“What?”
I stare at Mikhail, confident my hearing is acting up. My ears haven’t popped since our faster-than-humanely-possible landing, so my hearing could be at fault. But then why did I hear every snarled word he spoke when he organized a hookup in front of me? And the gurgles of my stomach when I pushed aside my pain for what I hope will be the greater good?
I don’t want to whore myself out to a man I once loved, but consummating our vows is the biggest payout figure on our marriage contract and the only way I will leave this arrangement with my heart intact.
It’s barely holding on, and we’re still on day one. It won’t survive weeks in this man’s presence, and the knowledge leaves me with only one option.
Do the deed, get it signed off, then leave.
A divorcee tag won’t be as bad as the jilted bride title I was lumped with ten years ago.
I’ll get over it—eventually.
This, though, being rejected by the man who made me feel beautiful no matter the frumpiness of my outfit, hurts.
I’ve aged—obviously—but I have also kept in good shape. My tits are where they’re meant to be, my stomach is flatter than my curvy hips and ass, and I religiously shave even with having no one to admire my gleaming skin.
I’m goddamn hot—just apparently not scalding enough for Mikhail.
“Get dressed,” he repeats, pinching the last of my confidence.
He tries to smooth my hurt with a lie. “Chef is bringing dinner to our room, and Kolya will arrive shortly after him with an updated schedule of our appearances over the next month. He’s old. I don’t want you to give him a heart attack.”
Kolya is in his forties, fifties at the most. He is far from ancient.
A tinge of modesty hits me hard, and it is foreign.
