Not even Ellis, Mikhail’s father and apparent man of the hour, gets a look in. His benefactors absentmindedly shift to our half of the room, eager to greet the fresh blood needed to resurrect an overrun and stale realm.
Mikhail greets over a hundred guests in a matter of minutes. He introduces me to every one of them as his wife, his voice ringing with pride as he ensures I am included in each exchange.
The shift of power between the powerhouses of the Dokovic realm is felt across the room, and my hunger for the man finally demanding his worth feeds off it. I’m hot all over, my skin physically warm to the touch.
Mikhail looks every inch the powerful, brilliant man he was born to be, and I am honored to witness his resurrection firsthand.
Camera flashes dance white spots in front of my eyes when Mikhail places his hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the ballroom hosting the main event. Photographers shout a range of questions as we move through a gauntlet of media capturing tonight’s event, but most steer in one direction.
Who is the mysterious redhead on Mikhail’s arm?
Thankfully, they keep the rest of their confusion on the down-low. I don’t need to be reminded of how many times Mikhail has been photographed with a busty blonde on his arm. All I need to remember is how he introduces me to the people capturing this moment in time for eternity.
Mikhail’s fingers flex against my back as he peers down at me with a hint of a smile gracing his plump lips. “This is Emerson Morozov, my wife.” Camera flashes burst around us as he commences spelling my name to ensure there are no misprints in tomorrow’s newspapers. “E-M-E-R-S-O-N?—”
His smile turns as blinding as the camera flashes when I interrupt, “Dokovic. D-O-K-O-V-I-C.” I return his needy stare while speaking words I’ve practiced a million times already. “Emerson Dokovic, wife of Mikhail Dokovic.”
Chapter 38
Mikhail
As my muscles burn through the aftermath of Emerson’s umpteenth orgasm, I drive into her on repeat. The call for last drinks was announced only an hour ago, but when I walked in on Emerson slipping off her panties in preparation for close of business, I lost all sense of control.
One minute, I was stalking her from afar. The next minute, I hooked her legs around my shoulders, and buried my head between her legs.
I ate her until she screamed my name loud enough to warn the staff not to enter the storage room unannounced, and her juices flooded my tongue not once but twice.
Then I entered her slowly, almost torturously, like I did in the woman’s bathroom of the gala a second after she proudly spelled her name for the media in attendance.
Contrary to expectations, she didn’t retain Morozov as her surname. She didn’t even hyphenate our names together. She gave them the name she had practiced signing for months before we had planned to elope, and she said it with pride.
“Emerson Dokovic, wife of Mikhail Dokovic.”
The way she said “wife” echoes in my mind, and it shifts our exchange from calm and loving to wild and out of control.
I thrust in deep, growling when the walls of Emerson’s pussy cling to my cock, milking me for my release. The neckline of my shirt is damp, my thigh muscles are aching, and my balls are hurting from how many times I’ve staved off my release, but I refuse to relent.
I love this. Fucking my wife. And I’m not close to having my fill.
Sweat runs down my forehead as my chest heaves with exertion. It is hot as fuck in the storage room, but it has nothing to do with the unghastly setting of the manufactured air.
I love taking her like this, nailing her to the shelves like I did when we were teens, while she moans my name on repeat. Except this time, I appreciate what I have more than I did back then.
Emerson was right. A reimagination isn’t about making a shitty remake of an overworked storyline. It is exciting and fresh, better than anything I’ve experienced. The past two weeks have been magical, and it isn’t always about sex.
We’ve talked, cooked, laughed, and reminisced.
And we showed those stiffs who ridiculed me last time that I’m wealthier than they will ever be. I got the girl, the success, and the envy of everyone in my realm.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace. It was honestly over a decade ago.
Emerson has always been able to do that—make me forget my worries. I had the world on my shoulders when we met, but she made it seem manageable. Weightless. She made it seem inconsequential.
When Emerson’s back arches, bringing her breasts to within an inch of my face, I become even harder. While circling my lipsaround the bud of her nipple through the cotton fabric of her shirt, I stretch her wide.
I gently tug on it with my teeth, bringing her moans up from a whisper to a roar. Her arms wrap around my neck as tremors wrack through her. She is close to coming again, to surrendering to the madness that has kept our sleep at a minimum for the past week.
Emerson’s mewls have me desperate to taste her again, to feel the quivers of her orgasm with my tongue this time instead of my cock.
