“Tell me, Ember!” I shout, the need to fuck clawing at me, making me desperate.
My hips drive forward as I hump the air, and pre-cum leaks from the crown of my cock. If I were still wearing pants, they’d be soaked through by now.
A rough grunt emits from me when she replies, “I need you to call me your wife again, to give me the title I know you’ll never give anyone else.”
I come hard and fast, the spurts of my release shooting far enough to reach the far leg of my desk. Cum leaks from my crown when I rise to my feet, cup her ass, and drag her to the edge of the desk until my still-firm cock braces at the entrance of her pussy. I use it to lubricate her further before I thrust in fast, bulging Emerson’s eyes and forcing her to gasp.
Her breathlessness worsens when I say through clenched teeth, “Take me,Wife. Let me in.”
Steam curls around us as I twist Emerson to face the faucet. The moan she releases when I commence removing the conditioner I massaged into her scalp is similar to the one that rolled up her chest when her pussy clutched at my cock, strangling it. It’s just fainter.
Our second marathon romp was as long as our first foray. The clubgoers are gone, the staff has left. It is just me and the girl I fell in love with on sight.
“Mikhail.”
“Hmm?” My voice hints at my exhaustion, but my cock has yet to get the memo. It is digging into Emerson’s ass like its release an hour ago didn’t have me coming with a violence that’s still shaking my thighs now.
A smile lifts my lips when she murmurs, “I think I need to have a word with your interior designer.” She spins to face me, her ass brushing my groin enough for me to groan. She acts oblivious, though. “Peach tiles went out of fashion years ago.”
“Decades, actually,” I correct. “I had to have these fuckers imported because white, off-white, and a shade of gray one step up from white was all they were stocking at the time of the build.”
She laughs as if I’m joking. I’m not. The bathroom in Emerson’s pub has peach tiles. I followed its theme to the wire. It is, after all, what made me rich—both professionally and personally.
“But if you want to consider a redesign, I’m open to ideas. It’s your bar. You can do what you want with it.”
I boink her nose before her adorable confused expression has me taking her hard and fast without foreplay before I exit the shower to fetch us a towel. They’re the same scratchy material that more shred your skin from your body than dry it, and they double Emerson’s smile.
She loves that I held on to a piece of us for so long, and I love it too.
“Why change something that isn’t broken?” Her mascara-smudged eyes glisten with mischievousness before she darts into the main part of my office, not bothering to dry herself.
When I follow after her, I find her digging through the couch, seeking the box she dumped earlier. Her nose crinkles when she flips it over to learn the origin of the sender. Then her smile turns blistering.
“I can’t believe she found it already.”
I’m curious as to what is in the box, but the high praise in her tone—even with it being directed at a member of her sex—has my focus altering. “Who?”
I feel like a dick when she lifts her eyes and murmurs, “My mom.”
I’ve only ever spoken highly of Inga, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t cursing her right now. Her package, though small, has Emerson dressing for the first time in twelve-plus hours.
I shove my feet into the legs of my sweatpants before following Emerson into the main section of the bar. It is different experiencing the bar at this hour, but not foreign. Emerson and I spent as much time at the pub outside of opening hours as we did during peak periods.
Curiosity envelops me when her steps lead us to the jukebox in the corner of the empty space. Then understanding takes hold.
“It took me longer than I care to admit that I had the definition of reimagining wrong.” She rolls her eyes before a spark darts through them. “It isn’t about copying an already done scenario. It is about striving to make it a better, more improved version.”
The silver coin she pulls out of a tiny wooden box isn’t a standard run-of-the-mill coin. It is worth a small fortune since it had an extremely limited run at the mint. When my grandfather tried to convince the federation to place his face on a ruble coin, he bribed someone at the mint to make it a reality. Only five coins were produced. One was given to the federation for consideration, and then the other four were distributed to high-up members of the Dokovic realm.
I somehow ended up on that extremely short list.
My father, Andrik, and our grandfather placed their coins in guarded vaults across the country. Mine was used more wisely. It was the coin I placed into the jukebox before asking Emerson to dance, confident the fifty-thousand-dollar loss would return tenfold if she said yes.
It’s worth more now that my grandfather has passed. If sold, it would get Emerson’s family’s pub out of the red, pay her mother’s mortgage in full, and fund Inga’s participation in the immunotherapy trial.
Does that mean what I think it does? Was Emerson’s agreement to marry me never about the money? It must not have been. She could have sold the coin. Its skyrocketing value was broadcast across the world in the week leading to my grandfather’s death. Collectors are willing to pay in excess of seven figures.
She could have funded everything I offered with one sale.
