“Emerson…” The pride in his tone adds more rouge coloring to my cheeks than the blush I applied in a hurry. “You look stunning.” Walking over, he presses his lips to my temple before breathing against my rapidly heating skin. “I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone as my wife.”
His wife comment already has me on edge, so I won’t mention the butterflies that erupt in my stomach when we make our way downstairs. The limousine gleams under the soft twinkle of the evening sky, and its grandeur is a symbol of what awaits us.
The driver greets us with a dip of his hat before he opens the door for Mikhail and me. “Sir. Ma’am.”
Smiling, I slide in first, eager to remove his flushed cheeks from my mind. I don’t want to recall how rheumy his cheeks already are before Mikhail orders him to circle the block. My thoughts will be far from embarrassed then.
Our plan to get frisky during the commute hits a snag when I look up to ensure the privacy partition has settled into place. We’re not alone.
The virile, endorphin-enriched air makes sense when my eyes lock on Zoya and Andrik seated across from me. Zoya’s blush also isn’t synthetic, and the heady scent of lust makes the confines of the limousine seem half the size.
When Mikhail settles in next to me and closes the door, I can’t help but giggle. The interior lights of the limousine expose a flaw in his tuxedo I didn’t notice earlier. The suit pants he switched out to ensure he didn’t greet his father’s benefactors in cum-stained pants are more a charcoal gray than black, and the stitch is a whip stitch instead of a back stitch.
Zoya’s laughter echoes with mine. “You didn’t tell them we were chaperoning them to the gala, did you?” She doesn’t wait for Andrik to answer her. “Why would he when he organized for the chauffeur to collect us first… an hour earlier than necessary.” Her scald has no heat to it, and everyone knows it. After flicking her eyes to me, she greets us. “Hello… I’m sorry to have ruined your fun.”
I wave off her apology as if I’m not gutted. “It’s fine. Truly.” I wouldn’t be me if I stopped now. “As long as there is more than one storage closet in the ballroom, everything will work out fine.”
I am a woeful liar. The further the limo travels, the more aware I become of how good Mikhail smells. He showered before dressing in his tuxedo, but remnants of our exchange in hissports car are clinging to his skin. I can smell my arousal on his mouth and taste him on my tongue, and it makes the sexual tension bristling between us excruciating.
Even something as simple as his thumb raking the top of my hand after gathering it in his could set me ablaze.
I’m horny as hell and struggling not to squirm.
Mercifully, I can excuse my writhes as nerves.
They’re bubbling too, building with each mile we travel.
They are almost at the boiling point when we reach the venue, and we’re escorted through a dark corridor by two security guards.
The air thickens with anticipation when Mikhail tells me he will be back in a minute before he disappears into the crowd with Andrik shadowing his fast and furious steps.
The room is brimming with elegantly-dressed men and women, but the energy is off. It feels odd, like we’re once again sardines crammed into a conference room, awaiting the will reading of a man no one liked.
It feels like my heart is going to thud out of my chest, and the likelihood increases when Zoya announces the cause of the delay. “This is where we’re meant to wait for approval before we can walk the gauntlet.”
I peer at her in shock, stunned she needs approval to attend her own father’s event.
She is his daughter, his flesh and blood.
Also, isn’t that what invitations are for?
I realize it isn’t solely our status being judged when a woman with a clipboard and a snarkytskrakes her disapproving gaze down the dress of an attendee. She judges her gown as harshly as someone would the digits in her bank account, and it has me suddenly grateful Mikhail steered me toward this dress instead of the one I tried to pass off as acceptable.
Seconds feel like hours as Zoya and I wait for Mikhail and Andrik’s return, the silence only broken by the occasional murmur of voices—raised voices.
I glance at Zoya, who gives me a reassuring smile when the voices register as familiar. Andrik isn’t happy about the delay, and he isn’t a man who will stand by and allow someone to rate his wife’s acceptability via a spreadsheet printout.
Mikhail is right there beside him, demanding the same level of respect for me. “Emerson ismywife. My. Fucking. Wife. Disrespect her again, and more than your job will be on the line.”
“Oh…” Zoya half moans, half purrs. “Perhaps Marshmallow Man wasn’t lying when he said his heart is the only soft and gooey thing about him.” She hits me with a frisky wink that lowers my angst in an instant. “His backbone seems extremely sturdy of late. Shall we go check it out for ourselves?”
When she holds out her hand in offering, soundlessly suggesting we go against the grain, I slip my hand into hers and then lead our walk toward the men defending our honor.
Mikhail beams at me when I arrive at his side, his pride unmistakable. His eyes are full of confidence, and the scent of a man in charge invigorates the lust in my veins.
Everything inside me twists into a mess of need and anxiousness when a second after replacing Zoya’s hand with his, the doors three guards are manning open, and we’re given the nod of approval to enter.
We step into the entrance of the ballroom, and the atmosphere is electric. The who’s who of Russia is in attendance, but instead of the focus being on them, everyone’s eyes are locked on Andrik, Zoya, Mikhail, and me.
