Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“And if I don’t agree with your new terms?”
She stares at me like she hates me when I nudge my head to the door she walked through only hours ago.
If she walks this time, she will lose far more than her heart.
Emerson’s lips twitch in preparation to speak, but before she can, the chef announces our meals are ready to be served.
After ten seconds of flicking her eyes between the menu and the chef, Emerson settles them on me. They’re still full of contempt and somewhat wet. “I haven’t ordered yet, so how could my meal be ready?”
“I ordered for you,” I reply while accepting the napkin a female waiter is attempting to place across my lap, happy to abide by the rules of our marriage, even after announcing them as if they’re solely for Emerson.
The waitress has been giving me gaga eyes all evening. She’s the type I’d usually go for. Blonde, big-breasted, and submissive. But with the tenderloin of all meats sitting across from me, it’s hard to pay attention to anything.
I walk straight into Emerson’s trap. “Then why were you eyeballing the menu when I arrived?” She doesn’t hide her smirk like the dozen staff around her do. She frees it as viciously as her mocking expression. “Is the Big Bad Wolf scared of Little Red Riding Hood?”
I bring her confidence down a smidge. “I was perusing the menu because I didn’t want anything to taint the image of you on your knees, gagging on my cock. Not even that pretty Little Red Riding Hood outfit that will only look better when it is sitting in tatters at the foot of my bed.”
Since my reply is honest, she can’t deny it.
Instead, she shifts her eyes to Chef and says, “To ensure there is no chance of that mistake occurring again, I would like to change my order, please.”
Chef mumbles and groans before he seeks permission from me to humor her suggestion. Women have no say in the Dokovic world. Well, they didn’t. The tides have been shifting since Zoya entered the realm. They just haven’t stretched this far inland yet.
When I jerk up my chin, agreeing to Chef’s silent question, Emerson waves him to her side of the dining room. I can’t hear what she orders. My heart is thudding too loudly for that. But it doubles the devilish gleam in her eyes and wipes my schedule clean for the evening.
Hell has been vacated since a newer, more evil playground has been established.
With my meal selections returned to the kitchen to await the preparation of Emerson’s dish, I settle in for a long wait. I doubt it will be as long as the three hours Emerson took to leave our suite, but I’m so fucking hungry that it will seem like a lifetime.
If only food could fulfill all my cravings.
A thick pane of glass forms the dining table, which could easily seat twenty. The only other setting excluding mine is directly across from me, meaning I can see the skin the dangerous split of Emerson’s skirt exposes. It only needs to travel an inch higher, and I’d be able to see her panties.
Needing to take my focus off how damp her panties were when I raked my eyes over her body seconds after spilling my load down her throat, I attempt to spark a conversation. “Have you spoken with your mother tonight?”
Emerson scoffs but remains quiet.
So fucking stubborn.
“I read reports about her treatment earlier. The trial stats are impressive.”
Why the fuck am I waving a white flag like I detonated the first bomb?
She kissed me.
She removed my cock from my trousers before trekking her tongue across the tip.
She broke my heart, not the other way around.
So it shouldn’t be my responsibility to patch up her mistakes.
I’m saved from searching for answers I’ll never get from myself when Chef returns to the dining room and says, “Dinner is served.”
My brows furrow as my curiosity rises. Emerson must have ordered something basic, because it takes Chef almost twenty minutes to make a grilled cheese sandwich. That’s how pedantic he is with his ingredient selections.
Anyone who prepares meals for the head of our country receives the same anal-pleasing chip implant.
A server removes the silver dome from my plate. It shows a medium-rare steak, mini jacket potatoes, and an assortment of vegetables, drizzled in Chef’s secret garlic and herb sauce.
My stomach grumbles while taking in my meal, but I remember you don’t have to be raised with manners to use them before digging in.
I stray my eyes to Emerson’s side of the table in just enough time to see her dome lifted, exposing her dinner selection. She picked a peanut butter sandwich with a generous side serving of… You guessed it! Peanut butter.
As her teeth stab a sandwich filled with so much ghastly nuttiness that it oozes from the side, her eyes flare with victory. She wipes an enormous chunk of peanut butter from the corner of her mouth before pouting when it flops onto the exposed skin high on her thigh, completely missing the napkin she refused to place in her lap.