With mouthfuls of dark brew settled in my stomach, I attempt to relieve the confusion not even a rueful glare could budge. “You said any hems on the skirts and dresses I wear should be knee length and that shirts need to be made from non-see-through material.” I highlight my shorts again. “Shorts.” Next, I showcase my spaghetti-strap top, which is poorly concealing my erect nipples. “Cotton. Both Mikhail-approved attire.”
He grins, and I fight like hell not to squeeze my thighs together.
Why does he have to be so damn handsome?
This would be so much easier if he were ugly.
“I’m glad you paid enough attention to my jealous rant to put thought into your outfit selection. It shows you’re coming into this a little more open-minded than you were yesterday. I appreciate the effort.”
What he really wants to say is that he’s impressed by my submissiveness when possible future orgasms are on the table. He just took the less confronting route. It is a tactic all nice guys use.
Instead of handing me a completed puzzle to marvel at, Mikhail gives me a solo piece I’ll have no chance of decipheringwithout his help. “But I think you should reconsider. It’s as cold as a witch’s tit outside, and they’re forecasting snow.”
I’m both excited and peeved. I hate the cold, but if I have to choose between staying indoors and trekking through miles of snow, I will always pick the latter.
Though I need to keep that a secret from Mikhail.
“We’re going outside?” I try to say “we’re” with no emotion whatsoever. I shouldn’t have bothered. Possessiveness blazes through Mikhail’s eyes half a second before he bobs his head.
“As in the backyard or…?” I leave my question open for him to answer as he sees fit.
He follows my plan nicely.
There’s always a first time for anything.
“I thought we could go for a ride.”
With my excitement too blistering to harness, I eagerly nod.
My head bobs up and down for barely a second before I freeze and purse my lips.
“Ride?” I don’t give him a chance to speak. “You bought a motorcycle?” Again, he nods, and then I speak at a million miles an hour. “When? Is it custom like you wanted? Or did you buy it off the floor? What color did you get? I hope you didn’t go for the burnt orange paintwork the dealer suggested. That was hideous.”
I laugh, stupidly nervous. I want to pretend I’m clueless about why I am anxious, but that would be a lie.
When we discussed Mikhail getting a motorcycle license, our lengthy talks included a lot of naughty, we’ll-be-in-our-graves-before-we-turn-thirty scenarios.
Two people who are meant to hate each other can’t be hopeful about crossing those experiences off their bucket list, so I have no right to be nervous.
Mikhail’s smile widens, shifting from jealous to hungry and wolfish. “You’ll find out.”
His reply seems unfinished.
I learn why when he nudges his head to the breakfast nook and says, “After you’ve had breakfast.”
I snarl, baring my teeth. Even with the chef going all out, nothing stands out as appetizing—except perhaps the man seated behind the layers of calorie-laden food.
I’d happily eat him.
Heat burns through me when Mikhail angles his head before cocking a dark brow.
Anyone would swear he heard my private thoughts.
I try to save face. “There’s nothing on offer I want to waste calories on.”
With his gaze hooded, Mikhail leans back in his seat and then leisurely glides his eyes up my body. I’m not wearing a bra. I rarely do while sleeping. But instead of berating myself for being a prick tease when my braless state has his eyes lingering on my breasts longer than an acceptable glance, I mentally high-five myself.
His baby blues haze with lust as he drinks in my practically naked form. My pajamas cling to my body like a second skin, the thinness of their material sparser than a lace glove.
