I nearly combust when he wets his lips while returning his eyes to my face. There’s so much tension, so much chemistry, that my pussy grows wet.
Mikhail has charm by the mile and a face that could stop traffic.
I am under his spell in an instant.
“Emerson?” Just the way he says my name makes me whimper. It is virile and hot.
I swallow thickly before attempting a reply. “Yeah.”
His smile ensures nothing but sex is on my mind. As do the words he speaks next. “Get your fine ass over here and eat something before I feed you the one thing I know won’t screw upyour calorie count.” A needy whimper escapes me. “It will dip it into the negative.”
We always joked that cum is a negative-calorie food because of how many calories you burn preparing the feast.
I hesitate, and it makes the tension roasting. Then I join him in the nook like I wouldn’t give everything I have to pretend he didn’t break my heart.
Chapter 18
Mikhail
Acocky smirk hikes one side of my mouth high when Emerson slips into the booth and then grabs a slice of toast from a rack on her right. I’m not smug because she followed a warning that I would have enforced. It’s from the way her eyes bounce between the oversized catering tub of peanut butter and the freshly made jam, her nose screwed up in contemplation.
She settles for the jam, making me as happy as a pig in mud.
Her temporary wave of the white flag keeps the tension manageable and sees me enjoying more of the spread in front of us. I sample a little of each dish on offer. Emerson consumes one piece of toast, minus the crust.
“You can’t keep skipping meals. It isn’t healthy.”
“Tell that to your cardiologist when he’s squeezing the fat out of your arteries from eating that.” She jerks her head to the strips of bacon laden with maple syrup. Never one to diss other people’s eating habits, she shrugs before saying, “Breakfast has never been my thing.”
“Since?”
Her eyes flare with an array of responses.
Since you made up that cum is a negative-calorie food.
Since it forced you to show you care by reminding me of its importance.
Since the arguments it instigated inspired the best makeup sex imaginable.
But she settles for a shrug instead.
“I can ask Chef to prepare you something different,” I offer after dragging my eyes over the options.
Chef created this menu for a man in his late eighties with one foot already in the grave. The grease already feels sluggish in my stomach. I don’t blame Emerson for finding the offerings unappealing.
A throb beats through my cock when she whispers, “I doubt Chef has what I want.”
“What was that?” I heard what she said, every lusty syllable. I merely want to test if she’s game enough to repeat her needy reply.
That woman last night, the one who pretended to be asleep after getting off on my thigh, isn’t the Emerson Morozov I know. My girl had grit. She’d never fold after one punch.
My cock thickens when she locks eyes with me, and she states matter-of-factly, “I doubt Chef has what I want.”
There she is.
I slouch back like I’m clueless that my new position will reward her with an outline of my cock before I say, “How will you know if you’re unwilling to ask?”
Emerson removes a crumb that my tongue was fantasizing about devouring before she furrows her brows. “You make a good point. Communication is vital foranyrelationship… and it isn’t like you’re overly good at it, so I guess I better man up for the both of us.”
