Page 17 of Deceitful Vows

“Zoya.”

I’m as stunned now as I was when the icy-blue eyes and cut jaw his voice conjured slowly presented as he spun around.

How does he know my name?

We didn’t exchange introductions.

Andrik’s eyes bounce between mine for several heart-thrashing seconds before he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“I… ah…” Mikhail’s keys jangle when I brush away a bead of sweat the unbelievable heat in the elevator caused my temple, and they break through some of the lusty fog Andrik’s closeness incites. “I’m returning these to a…friend.”

I can be forgiven for my stumble of Mikhail’s title.

He was a stranger only hours ago.

As was the man whose anger returns to the boiling point so fast steam almost billows from his ears. “You know Mikhail?”

“Uh-huh,” I answer, a better response above me.

I don’t work well in the heat. It is one reason I frequently return to Russia even with opportunities abroad far exceeding any I’ll receive locally.

I also struggle leaving my best friend behind, and the toil worsened when she practically lost her parents within days of each other.

When Andrik works his jaw from side to side, its crunch returns my focus to the present. He drags his hand across the bristles covering a majority of his panty-wetting jawline before he attempts to force words through the tightness. “Enough for him to give you private access to his penthouse?”

“Uh-huh,” I repeat, too focused on unearthing what has caused the fury in his eyes.

Mikhail offered me his bed for the night, not his hand in marriage. Andrik’s spasming jaw and narrowing eyes would have you convinced otherwise.

“That’s surprising.”

“It is?” I reply, stupidly wanting to continue our conversation since my ego is feeding off the tension it is creating.

“Uh-huh,” Andrik mocks, his tone low. “Because he only ever gives access to the girls he wants to fuck.” He steps closer, brooding and looming. “Again.” His expression is as ugly as his words, but it still makes me squirm. “So what number is this, Zoya Galdean? Date two, three, or four?”

His words get hotter and deeper with each one he speaks, and they make me so reckless I foolishly fall for the ruse that he’s more jealous than angry.

“I’m not exactly sure. Does the consummation of a meal count as a date? Or only if an orgasm is achieved?”

“If?”

His brows are too pinched to show the laughter in his eyes, his expression too taut, but I don’t need to hear it to know of its arrival. It batters my chest with its rumbles.

That’s how close he stands when he murmurs, “There are no ifs,?????. Not when you’re fucked by a real man.”

He grips my chin and shoves my head to the side before he drags his nose down the pulse in my neck. When he reaches the risqué neckline of my shirt dusting my collarbone, he growls. Its deep rumble skates through my veins before clustering in my needy pussy.

“Which I’d say you haven’t experienced in a long time.Ifever.”

Hating that he is mocking me, I attempt to push him back. He doesn’t budge an inch.

He leans in deeper, dampening my panties to a point I can no longer ignore. “Do you want me to show you the difference,?????? Or shall I skip straight to demonstrating how to get past page seventeen?”

His reminder that I’m so broken I need a brochure to enjoy something many people take for granted intensifies my mood.

When denied, even by my own doing, I get bitchy.

“And have you steal the honor Mikhail has worked so hard to achieve? Don’t be ridiculous.”

---