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)
I couldn’t remember a single bad thing she did or said when she was moaning beneath me, begging for me to touch her. It was just us against the world.
“Almost done. Just a few more, then we’re almost set for the real thing.” The photographer’s last sentence breaks the tangible string tethering us together.
“Real thing?” Emerson asks, her shock as high as my brows. “Is this not the actual shoot?”
With a giggle, the photographer lowers her camera. “This is the pre-shoot to check we have the lighting right. We don’t want any pesky shadows hiding your beautiful face.” She snaps another handful of photos I plan to purchase for my private collection. Emerson’s confused face is adorable. It is one of my favorite features. “This is also a bridal shoot. We can’t have you photographed in muddy jeans and a lint-pilled sweater. We have a range of gorgeous dresses ready for your approval.”
Emerson’s eyes stray to the rack the photographer points out before she returns them front and center. “I don’t want a random dress.”
“The dresses aren’t random. Well-known designers crafted all of them. They’re elegant and beautiful—”
“But they’re not my dress. It isn’t the dress I wore when we wed.” Emerson’s eyes are on me, hot and wet. “It isn’t the dress my mother made for me to marry you in.”
My eyes bounce between hers for several long seconds. I didn’t give her much time to agree to my proposal. I didn’t want to give logic the chance to enter the equation. So there’s no way her mother would have had enough time to whip together a basic dress, much less the intricately designed gown she wore yesterday.
That can only mean one thing. She wore the dress she was meant to wear ten years ago—the one her mother made when we decided to elope.
Not only does that reveal she held on to her wedding dress for over ten years, as I had our wedding rings, but it also shows she didn’t go into this with a totally closed mind. She put thought into it, and feelings.
I turn to face Loretta, who is watching the shoot with a handful of staff. “Bring Emerson’s dress to the den.”
The photographer gasps. “We have a contract to endorse a designer for this feature. She can’t wear a dress her mother made. That would be preposterous.”
“Either my wife wears the dress she wore when we wed, or we cancel the shoot.” My tone is the same snapped timbre I used when my grandfather, who at the time was the president of our great country, thought he could railroad me into marrying a stranger.
I was drunk, alcohol my only defense when fighting the urge to drive to Lidny and demand answers years too late, when he handed me a list of socialites to pick from.
I tossed their dossiers into the fireplace before I stormed out. My journey to Lidny ended abruptly when I crashed into a gulley, resulting in a drunk driving arrest.
My grandfather swept my criminal record under the rug, but it came at a cost. He relegated me to the lowest position I’d ever held and withheld the inheritance all Dokovic sons receive on their twenty-first birthday.
Fortunately for me, I already had a successful establishment under my belt, and my determination not to follow my grandfather’s life plan saw it expanding into a multi-location establishment within the next twelve months.
The photographer sighs, shifting my focus back to the present before she glances at her team to gauge their response to my threat.
They all side in my favor. Even Kolya.
“It isn’t ideal, but if it’s that important to her—”
“It’s important to me,” I interrupt, stopping her from saying something that will see this shoot ending before it has truly begun.
“If it’s that important to you,” the photographer corrects, “we’ll make it work.” She flicks her eyes to Emerson, who is staring at me in awe. “Perhaps we can get a handful of shots of you in their garments that we can use in future promotional features?”
Emerson nods, happy with the compromise.
Her agreeing gesture slackens the worried lines scouring the photographer’s forehead. “Okay. Great.”
While she barks orders at her team, Emerson hands me everything I’d lost with two short words. “Thank you.”
Chapter 23
Emerson
Studio lights cast a warm glow over Mikhail and me as we follow the directions of the photographer. She dictates the entire shoot from behind the lens, but my focus is more on Mikhail than her. His subtle touches, the excruciating pressure of his fingers on my waist, hips, and ass, and the electricity bristling between us have kept my focus gripped on nothing but him for the past three hours.
And lust… that has been in abundance as well.
It’s been one nonstop chemistry pose after another. I doubt any of the photographer’s suggested poses are suitable for public consumption. The brushing of our bodies is an intimate dance—one I would give anything to take behind closed doors. They grow more intimate the longer the shoot progresses, bordering on pornography.