Not only does that reveal she held on to her wedding dress for over ten years, as I had our wedding rings, but it also shows she didn’t go into this with a totally closed mind. She put thought into it, and feelings.
I turn to face Loretta, who is watching the shoot with a handful of staff. “Bring Emerson’s dress to the den.”
The photographer gasps. “We have a contract to endorse a designer for this feature. She can’t wear a dress her mother made. That would be preposterous.”
“Either my wife wears the dress she wore when we wed, or we cancel the shoot.” My tone is the same snapped timbre I used when my grandfather, who at the time was the president of our great country, thought he could railroad me into marrying a stranger.
I was drunk, alcohol my only defense when fighting the urge to drive to Lidny and demand answers years too late, when he handed me a list of socialites to pick from.
I tossed their dossiers into the fireplace before I stormed out. My journey to Lidny ended abruptly when I crashed into a gulley, resulting in a drunk driving arrest.
My grandfather swept my criminal record under the rug, but it came at a cost. He relegated me to the lowest position I’d ever held and withheld the inheritance all Dokovic sons receive on their twenty-first birthday.
Fortunately for me, I already had a successful establishment under my belt, and my determination not to follow my grandfather’s life plan saw it expanding into a multi-location establishment within the next twelve months.
The photographer sighs, shifting my focus back to the present before she glances at her team to gauge their response to my threat.
They all side in my favor. Even Kolya.
“It isn’t ideal, but if it’s that important to her?—”
“It’s important to me,” I interrupt, stopping her from saying something that will see this shoot ending before it has truly begun.
“If it’s that important to you,” the photographer corrects, “we’ll make it work.” She flicks her eyes to Emerson, who is staring at me in awe. “Perhaps we can get a handful of shots of you in their garments that we can use in future promotional features?”
Emerson nods, happy with the compromise.
Her agreeing gesture slackens the worried lines scouring the photographer’s forehead. “Okay. Great.”
While she barks orders at her team, Emerson hands me everything I’d lost with two short words. “Thank you.”
Chapter 23
Emerson
Studio lights cast a warm glow over Mikhail and me as we follow the directions of the photographer. She dictates the entire shoot from behind the lens, but my focus is more on Mikhail than her. His subtle touches, the excruciating pressure of his fingers on my waist, hips, and ass, and the electricity bristling between us have kept my focus gripped on nothing but him for the past three hours.
And lust… that has been in abundance as well.
It’s been one nonstop chemistry pose after another. I doubt any of the photographer’s suggested poses are suitable for public consumption. The brushing of our bodies is an intimate dance—one I would give anything to take behind closed doors. They grow more intimate the longer the shoot progresses, bordering on pornography.
Take our pose now, for example. I’m seated on a chair, and Mikhail is kneeling in front of me. They pulled the flare of my dress halfway up my thighs, and seconds later, Mikhail slipped his hands beneath the layers of lace.
We’re meant to be replicating the removal of the garter I left on the desk in the corner of my room, but it feels far moresalacious than a newly wedded couple would be in front of their family and friends. Desire is hanging heavily in the air, and I can smell my bubbling arousal.
“Deeper, Mikhail. I don’t want to see a single thread of your dress shirt.”
Mikhail slides his hand up my thigh as per the photographer’s instructions, sending a shiver rolling down my spine. His fingertips tickle the skin high on my thigh, and my insides clench.
He never returned the underwear he forced me to remove at the boutique, and I’ve not had a minute to myself in hours to replace them.
Mikhail is only an inch away from discovering I am naked under the dress my mother made from my baptismal gown.
When my lust-crazed head forces a subtle arch in my back, I lower my gaze to Mikhail. The world fades away when our eyes connect. Once again, it is just the two of us lost in a moment, cherishing every touch, throb, and whispered moan.
“Yes. There. Perfect.”
The camera clicks, capturing images I will never approve for print. They’re too X-rated.
