With my heart not as heavy as it was moments ago, I shadow Mikhail into Wilfred Iwona’s invitation-only boutique. The atmosphere is lively and welcoming. Staff greet us with warm smiles, and grungy music fills the air.
The boutique is overflowing with racks of beautiful clothes, each piece more stunning than the last. As I take in the impeccable stitch of a ballgown that costs more than my first car, I overhear the sales clerk telling Mikhail that Nesy had a family emergency, so Wilfred will assist us today.
I almost pee my pants. Wilfred is Russia’s number-one designer. She distributes her garments globally and clothes many celebrities. But I try to play it cool. The one time I expressed bewilderment about someone’s obvious wealth saw me shunted from Mikhail’s family’s life with a “you’re not worthy” endorsement stamped on my forehead.
“Wilfred shall arrive shortly. Until then, you’re welcome to peruse the garments on offer.”
Nodding, Mikhail removes his wallet from his muddy jeans and then hands a fancy black Amex to the clerk before he joins me in the central hub of the boutique.
There’s still a snippet of pain in his eyes, but I try to brush it aside when he asks, “See anything you like?”
“Um…” I scan the outfits, seeking one with a price tag under a thousand dollars. The closest I get is three thousand. It is hefty but well below its counterparts. “I like this one. With the right accessories, it could work for a benefactor event.”
Mikhail screws up his nose, and it is a fight not to smile.
The dress is cheap because, unlike its fancy companions, it is hideously unflattering.
A potato sack would show off my curves more than that outfit.
“What about that one?” Mikhail nudges his head to the dress my eyes landed on the instant we entered. It is gorgeous. The dress features a detailed bust, a flared skirt, and a dangerously unique split. It is a dress you’d expect a movie star to wear during the premiere of her movie.
“It’s lovely, but…” My reply trails off when Mikhail acts as if I only spoke two words.
He plucks the dress with a five-figure price tag off the solo rack designed to showcase its flawless design before he hotfoots it toward the dressing room.
“Mikhail—”
I’m cut off again, with words this time. “I can still taste you on my mouth. Now is not the time to argue with me, Ember.” He twists to face me, his tongue stroking his lips as if seeking a morsel of our kiss on his mouth. “I also don’t need another reason for people to rubberneck. Imagining you in this dress”—he waves around the dress he’s mentioning—“is giving them more reasons to arrest me for public indecency.”
I’m lost, but mercifully, he’s quick to point out the reason for the bodies camped outside the boutique, gawking. He’s hard. I’m not talking about an outline that might give my grandma a heart attack. I’m talking about a bulge not even the frumpy outfit I tried to convince him to purchase could conceal.
Is he hard because we’re in a boutique that screams sex and sensuality, or because he is still as worked up as I am over our grind-up?
When his tongue delves out for the second time in the past minute, I steer toward the latter.
Warmth blooms between my legs, and because I am forever weak when it comes to this man, its heat has me walking toward Mikhail with my hips swinging and my eyes full of lust.
For just a moment, I relish the electricity crackling between us. I allow it to build my confidence to a point it will never topple before I snatch the dress out of his hand and enter the dressing room before him.
I didn’t think my plan through. A curtain forms the changing room’s door. There’s no lock. I’ve not even hooked Mikhail’s pick onto a hanger at the side of the ample space before his imposing aura pinches the last of the air in my lungs.
“What are you doing?” I ask, attempting to portray that I have some sort of morality when it comes to this man.
His predatory stalk flashes up images of his eagerness to remove my jeans only an hour ago, and they make me wet.
I’m not the only one feeding off the lust brewing in the air. Mikhail’s reply almost crests the wave in my stomach. “With a sixteen-thousand-dollar purchase price, you can be assured that I’m going to make sure it is the perfect fit before handing over a penny.”
I love his attempts to squash the last bit of tension between us with playfulness, but I can’t help but tease him. “Isn’t that Wilfred’s job?”
He stares straight at me while replying, “Usually.” His lips twist as he shakes his head. “But not when it comes to you.” When his words freeze me, he tilts his head and hikes up one side of his chunky lips. “If you’re shy, I can twist away?—”
I shut him up by unbuttoning my jeans. The hiss of my zipper as I lower it matches the whistle that rustles through his teeth when I peel my jeans down my thighs while maintaining eye contact.
I’m not watching him solely to prove my confidence will only ever surge in his presence instead of wilting. I am also doing it so I don’t miss a single expression that crosses his gorgeous face.
Mikhail’s eyes speak a million words before his mouth articulates a single one.
Every nerve in my body ignites when a deep murmur sounds from his chest as he takes in my printed underwear.
