Page 123 of Ivory Ashes

“So why did you want to do this?”

“Because I can,” he says nonchalantly. “We never had a honeymoon.”

“We skipped a lot of wedding traditions. No proposal, no engagement party, no rehearsal dinner, no reception?—”

“No wedding night.” Mikhail looks me over, the heat in his gaze setting my insides on fire.

I reach for the blanket folded under his seat with shaking hands. “Do you mind?”

He waves me on. “What’s mine is yours, remember?”

I drape the blanket over both of us, snuggling in close. Then I slide my hand under the blanket and scrape my nails along the seam of his pants. “Does that make this mine, too?”

The low growl in Mikhail’s throat is hard to interpret, but by the time I have his hard length in my palm and he’s snarling a long string of curses under his breath, I’m pretty sure I understand perfectly.

44

VIVIANA

Vacation Mikhail is officially my favorite Mikhail.

Which is really saying something. Normal Mikhail is tough to beat. The man knows how to wear a suit. And the gruff Bratva pakhan who is always in control and never shows weakness revs my engine just fine.

But shirtless on a beach with his tan muscles rippling in the sunlight and saltwater curling the ends of his hair?

That’s even better.

Curse the person or persons responsible for such trivial things as “public decency” and “indecent exposure” and the phrase “get a room.” Because I can’t look at Mikhail without wanting to lay him out, taste every inch of him, and then go back for seconds.

Mikhail is standing down by the water, his feet in the surf. He stretches one arm over his head, arching into the movement to stretch his back. Every inch of the man is perfect. Tan skin stretched over muscles I didn’t think existed anywhere except medical textbooks.

I’m tucked away under an umbrella with a sunhat on, but I’m feeling suddenly flushed.

Holy hell, this is torture.

“Come play with us, Mama!” Dante waves a plastic shovel frantically in the air.

“Yeah, Mama,” Mikhail echoes, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Come play.”

The two of them have been working on a “sand mansion” for the last half-hour while I’ve been pretending to read my book. Really, the book was just a ruse. I’ve been peering over the top of the pages to watch Mikhail father our child… like the debauched pervert I am.

That’s what most perverts are into, right? Good parenting. Wholesome values. Strong paternal role models. Sick, twisted stuff like that.

I heave myself out of my lounge chair and across the sand. Some manual labor will be a good distraction from the dirty thoughts swirling around my head.

An hour later, we put the finishing touches on the sand mansion’s in-ground swimming pool just as the tide comes in.

Dante’s lower lip is getting wobbly with fear, so I try to lighten the mood. “I hope they have flood insurance.”

He doesn’t know much about insurance and it’s not a great joke anyway, so I can see the tears welling in his eyes.

Then Mikhail roars, throws Dante over his shoulder, and sprints away from the shoreline, screaming about a tsunami. Dante erupts in giggles. When Mikhail plops him in the sand, he hops up and chases Mikhail back towards the water, the ruined sandcastle already a distant memory.

Oh, yeah—Vacation Mikhail is the best.

We walk back to Mikhail’s beach house—one of half a dozen different beach houses dotted around the globe, I’ve learned—and dinner is already on the table. It’s fried pork and red beans with coconut rice on the side. Apparently, Mikhail keeps a local chef on retainer, so we’ve been eating nothing but the best since we arrived two days ago.

Even Dante digs right in. “This is my favorite food,” he announces around a mouthful.

---