I don’t get to register how quickly she flicked the switch before she flings her head to the side of the room and waves Chef over.
He arrives at her side in an instant, my reprimand this morning that Emerson’s gender doesn’t make her less than in any of my households no doubt still ringing in his ears.
“What can I help you with, Ms. Dokovic?”
The reminder of Emerson’s new surname and my hurt that she’s accusing me of having bad communication skills and not being man enough sees me jumping headfirst into a fight I was hopeful to avoid.
She didn’t even have the decency to break up with me via a text message, so how the fuck can she accuse me of having shit communication skills?
“Mrs. Dokovic will have two poached eggs on a thick slice of toasted rye, a side of steamed spinach and sautéed mushrooms, and freshly squeezed orange juice.” Again, I adjust my position, stealing the outline of my cock from her view since she’s no longer privileged to see it. “Oh, and a side of cum. If you have it.” I return my eyes to Emerson’s and struggle not to smirk when I spot the shock on her face. “If not, no bother. I’m sure I can rustle up some formy wife. It is the least I can do since she’s forgotten that the validity of the argument corresponds with the strength of the orgasm its makeup sex will inspire.”
Chef doesn’t know where to look when Emerson attempts to back away with her hands held in the air, bowing out like a coward.
Words tumble from my mouth with the crack of a whip, furious at her swift surrender. “Sit down.”
“I think?—”
“Sit before I pin you to the booth with my handsandmy cock.”
Emerson’s nostrils flare, vainly trying to portray false anger. I know better. She’s not raring up for a fight. For different reasons this time, she’s fighting to avoid surrendering again.
She’s also struggling not to kiss me as if her “man up” comment didn’t shatter my confidence.
For weeks, my grandfather and father ridiculed me for being dumped and shoved me down the totem pole of importance. It took years to earn back the respect her wedding day dumping stole.
I will not let anyone strip it from me again.
When Emerson plops back into her seat like her dizziness is from a lack of nutrients, I suck in a deep breath to cool my heated veins before shifting my eyes to Chef. The heat of his beady gaze is the only reason I threatened Emerson with words instead of actions.
Chef swallows before he makes an excuse to leave. “Poached eggs on rye. Coming right up.”
He scatters away, his footing as unsteady as my breaths, when I slowly return my eyes to Emerson.
The rise and fall of her chest matches mine when I say, “Was that communicative enough for you?”
Her eyes dance between mine for several long seconds, her confusion growing the longer they bounce before she eventually jerks up her chin, once again bowing out without drawing blood.
Chapter 19
Emerson
I’m lost as to what just happened. We were flirting and getting along, and then Mikhail took my swipe at his inability to communicate with cold-heartedness.
I was trying to be playful, hoping some humor would stop me from acting like he’s my personal sex slave.
It seems to have had the opposite effect.
Back is the moody, leave-me-the-fuck-alone man I only dealt with once. It was after we visited his father’s palatial mansion to announce our upcoming nuptials.
Our plan to woo the heads of the Dokovic realm with a whirlwind yet stable romance story worthy of a romance novel was snuffed out in less than a minute.
Mikhail’s father laughed when I told him how Mikhail had proposed in a field of my favorite flowers he had a farmer plant instead of wheat, and his grandfather shook his head.
“They’ll never approve,” his father said while eyeing me up and down. “You don’t have the lineage for the Dokovic name.”
“Nor the wealth,” his grandfather added.
I won’t lie. Their rejection stung like a thousand bee stings, but an hour later, the pain was minimal when Mikhail embracedmy suggestion that we elope. He said, as plain as day, that it was me or no one, that I was the only woman he wouldevermarry.
