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)
“Ready?” I feel Mikhail’s question more than I hear it. That’s how close our bodies are. It is like we’re back at the crest of the waterfall, but Mikhail is the wrong way around.
Our eyes align in the side mirror when I jerk up my chin.
The roaring of Mikhail’s engine fills the ride to the bustling metropolis with adrenaline. But my thoughts are elsewhere. I wonder if our make-out session meant as much to Mikhail as it did to me or if the memories were too potent for him to move past without trying to rehash them?
I’d like to think it is the former. Our contract encourages public displays of affection, but no one else was with us at the waterfall before we were interrupted. It was just us and memories I’m praying never become haunted.
The wind rushing past us ensures my cheeks are dry by the time Mikhail parks his custom bike in front of a fancy boutique. The town, a hundred miles from Zelenolsk Manor, is bustling and extremely high-end.
Only the wealthy live in this part of the country, and the locals’ faces show it when Mikhail dismounts his bike to help me. His snatch-and-pluck maneuver saved me from a life-ending fall, but his jeans weren’t so lucky to escape the carnage. They’re stained in the back, as murky as he made the front of my jeans when he kissed me senselessly while fondling my breasts.
The reminder of the chemistry brewing between us during our make-out session assures me it wasn’t an act. You can’t manufacture electricity like that on a whim. It takes months to inspire and years to perfect.
With my heart not as heavy as it was moments ago, I shadow Mikhail into Wilfred Iwona’s invitation-only boutique. The atmosphere is lively and welcoming. Staff greet us with warm smiles, and grungy music fills the air.
The boutique is overflowing with racks of beautiful clothes, each piece more stunning than the last. As I take in the impeccable stitch of a ballgown that costs more than my first car, I overhear the sales clerk telling Mikhail that Nesy had a family emergency, so Wilfred will assist us today.
I almost pee my pants. Wilfred is Russia’s number-one designer. She distributes her garments globally and clothes many celebrities. But I try to play it cool. The one time I expressed bewilderment about someone’s obvious wealth saw me shunted from Mikhail’s family’s life with a “you’re not worthy” endorsement stamped on my forehead.
“Wilfred shall arrive shortly. Until then, you’re welcome to peruse the garments on offer.”
Nodding, Mikhail removes his wallet from his muddy jeans and then hands a fancy black Amex to the clerk before he joins me in the central hub of the boutique.
There’s still a snippet of pain in his eyes, but I try to brush it aside when he asks, “See anything you like?”
“Um…” I scan the outfits, seeking one with a price tag under a thousand dollars. The closest I get is three thousand. It is hefty but well below its counterparts. “I like this one. With the right accessories, it could work for a benefactor event.”
Mikhail screws up his nose, and it is a fight not to smile.
The dress is cheap because, unlike its fancy companions, it is hideously unflattering.
A potato sack would show off my curves more than that outfit.
“What about that one?” Mikhail nudges his head to the dress my eyes landed on the instant we entered. It is gorgeous. The dress features a detailed bust, a flared skirt, and a dangerously unique split. It is a dress you’d expect a movie star to wear during the premiere of her movie.
“It’s lovely, but…” My reply trails off when Mikhail acts as if I only spoke two words.
He plucks the dress with a five-figure price tag off the solo rack designed to showcase its flawless design before he hotfoots it toward the dressing room.
“Mikhail—”
I’m cut off again, with words this time. “I can still taste you on my mouth. Now is not the time to argue with me, Ember.” He twists to face me, his tongue stroking his lips as if seeking a morsel of our kiss on his mouth. “I also don’t need another reason for people to rubberneck. Imagining you in this dress”—he waves around the dress he’s mentioning—“is giving them more reasons to arrest me for public indecency.”
I’m lost, but mercifully, he’s quick to point out the reason for the bodies camped outside the boutique, gawking. He’s hard. I’m not talking about an outline that might give my grandma a heart attack. I’m talking about a bulge not even the frumpy outfit I tried to convince him to purchase could conceal.
Is he hard because we’re in a boutique that screams sex and sensuality, or because he is still as worked up as I am over our grind-up?