This was not my intention when I allowed him to lower me to my knees. I don’t want to hurt him. I’m merely trying to protect my heart so he can’t smash it into smithereens for the second time.
Mikhail’s voice is hoarse when he says, “Once you’ve dressed, join me downstairs for something to eat.”
Despite being drenched with his cum, my throat’s rawness makes my voice come out scratchy. “I thought we were eating in our room?”
His lips twitch to hike into a smirk, but he fights it. His mouth remains as hard-lined as his words that hack my alreadyfrail heart. “We would have if I trusted you. Since I don’t, we will eat downstairs.”
Chapter 12
Mikhail
Heaven has no rage like love turned to hatred.
Emerson’s glare as she crosses the formal dining room gives that quote meaning. She’s dressed in more clothing than she wore hours ago—if you class a mini skirt, dangerously high stilettoes, and a fitted sleeveless lace shirt as clothing. Her makeup is light, and she has released and brushed her hair, removing the knots my tight grip caused.
She’s undeniably beautiful… and scowling furiously enough for me to keep that to myself.
I’m a fucking soft cock.
I was when I walked away like I hadn’t recently flooded her throat with my sperm, and I am now when I pretend to peruse the menu the chef prepares each morning instead of admiring how smoking hot my wife looks in her little red outfit.
Emerson has a decade more on the clock than the women I had Kolya remove from the premises, rejecting their offers to take care of the bulge that refused to settle even after I learned I was being led by my dick, but she is a trillion times more stunning.
I know that.
Emerson knows that.
And so the fuck does every pair of male eyes stalking her arrival.
I stop collecting names when a deep voice on my right says, “Please, allow me.”
A server dressed in black slacks and a white button-up shirt rushes over to pull out Emerson’s chair. He blushes when she rewards his chivalry with a smile, like he’s unaccustomed to praise.
That isn’t surprising. My grandfather was a tyrant. He never gave praise, not even to the people who shared his blood.
The reminder would usually see me pulling on the reins, but the server’s reaction to Emerson’s racy little number is as readable as the flight deck crew member’s interest at the airstrip.
He wants to fuck her.
He wants to bed my wife.
Over my dead body, fuckface.
With my menu dumped, I scald the server with a glare hot enough to deviate his focus off Emerson’s tits and warn a handful of others surrounding us that I will tolerate most mistakes, but this, blatantly disrespecting me in my home by fawning over my wife, is the quickest way to get fired.
I was a jealous, neurotic fuck when we dated. I can only see it worsening now that Emerson finally has my last name, and I showcase my assumption in the nastiest way possible.
“While you were getting ready?—”
“Ready?” Emerson interrupts, her brow cocked. “Do you mean when I had to take care of business myself because you left me hanging like you’re no longer capable of pleasing a woman?”
The snickers from our staff taper to silence when my narrowed gaze shoots around the room.
They don’t know me, so they have no clue I’m the cruisy, playful Dokovic heir. As far as they know, I’m as ruthless as Andrik and as heartless as my father.
There’s only one person who knows differently. It is the same person attempting to goad me into making another mistake because she knows there’s no possibility I will walk away twice.
Getting my dick sucked was satisfying as fuck, but it is the bottom of the barrel compared to Emerson’s many other skills.
