I’ll never recover if my mother sees my expression. Hence another reason I deleted the teen’s photos. I spun fast, but not fast enough for the eager snap of a fan.
The heat creeping across my cheeks descends to my chest when the photographer’s assistant says, “Isn’t the groom meant to remove the garter with his teeth?”
He flicks through a celebrity wedding bible the magazine’s editor demanded they fill as a salacious smirk stretches across Mikhail’s face. It tells me everything I need to know. He knows I am sans panties, and he has no intention of helping me out of the pickle he placed me in.
“Yes. Here it is.”
The photographer peers at the folder that’s so heavy it needs two hands to hold it up. “Oh… I love it.” Her eyes flicker for a handful of seconds before she adds, “But I think we should do it in a black-and-white film. It will give it a regal edge.”
She calls a ten-minute break so her assistant can fetch some old-style film from her van. The lighting crew, makeup artist, and stylist rush for the refreshments Chef placed out earlier.
In seconds, the den goes from a bustling hive of activity to almost isolated.
Only Mikhail and I remain.
Now is the perfect time for me to replace my undergarments. But for the life of me, I can’t move. Mikhail’s gaze is hooded, and his hands are still under my dress.
I’d be a fool if I were to walk now.
Mikhailtsksme. It sounds as playful as the glint firing through his icy eyes. “Emerson Morozov, what will your momma say when she finds out you did an entire shoot while not wearing any panties?”
I reply with as much sass as he’s issuing. “She’d probably ask me who stole them and then demand an update on their removal.”
Mikhail throws his head back and laughs. It does wild things to my insides. “I said what would your momma say, not your aunt Marcelle.”
“Tomato,tomato.”
His laughter increases, but it does little to ease the tension. His hands are still on me. Not even a tsunami could put out the fire raging in my stomach. As his fingertips creep closer to the heat making my brain a hazy mess, he asks, “How would you answer her question?”
I take a moment to contemplate before choosing the honesty route, hopeful it will see me rewarded. “I removed them tosave them from getting soddened, but someone interrupted me before I could reimagine my wildest dream.”
Mikhail’s deliriously handsome face and fingers inch closer while he murmurs, “Reimagined?”
I nod, the burning of my throat too incinerating to speak.
He will never let me off so easily. He angles his head, sending a dark lock falling across his eye before he arches a brow in silent questioning.
I wait until the tension becomes excruciating before whispering, “Because once magic is mastered, it can only be reimagined. Though sometimes it is pointless. There’s only one version ofThe Shawshank Redemptionfor a reason. Why?—”
“Fuck with perfection.”
I nod, surprised by the heavy sentiment in his eyes when he speaks a statement he once regularly used.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, but once he eventually speaks, it is better than I expected. “Does anything achieved in ten minutes qualify as perfection?”
“Depends.”
His deep rumble rolls over my lips when he asks, “On?”
“On whom you’ve awarded the ten minutes to.” I twist my lips to hide their painful furl. “A random stranger with no personal connection whatsoever would probably underestimate the significance of those ten minutes, but someone who clings to every single second would cherish every one of them.”
I stop seeking something to focus on when Mikhail says, “What if she was the only one you’ve ever given those ten minutes to? What would she say?”
I can’t tell if I’m angry or confused by my tone. “If you’re trying to make out you’ve not been with anyone since me, you need to teach the photographer’s assistant how to whisper. He?—”
“I’m not talking about sex, Emmy. I’m talking about this. Us. Now.” He brushes his hand down the cleft of my pussy, stealing my thoughts. “A man kneeling in front ofhiswoman.” The way he says “his” floods my veins with lust. “They say you only kneel to those above you, that it is degrading to do it for any old fool.” The sentiment I mentioned earlier is nothing compared to the emotions flaring through his eyes now. “I kneeled in front of you every day, Emmy. You andonlyyou. No one else has had my respect enough for me to kneel in front of them.”
I want to sob but hold it back, needing answers. “Then why did you le?—”
