Page 47 of Possessive Vows

He’s fucking amazing. A work of art. His ass is front-page worthy. I wonder if his tattoos extend to cover the globes, but don’t dare ask for fear of him stripping off his boxer briefs.

He may have control over his body, but I do not have control over mine. If I push myself too far, I may never find the courage to get this close to him ever again.

My eyes burn and widen beyond comfort as I take in the glorious expanse of his sculpted back.

Drawn in different styles and in different stages of fading, the tattoos covering him from neck to below his waistband create one seamless design despite their lack of continuity. It’s beautiful, chaotic, and mouthwatering.

“I want to know what each of your tattoos mean,” I hear myself say, even though my eyes and brain struggle to take in every centimeter of his scarred and tattooed flesh.

“I will tell you. We have time. The rest of our lives, once you marry me,” he says.

Lightning zings from my nipples to my core.

I fill my lungs with his subtle scent, trace a single fingertip over the angel on his left shoulder blade while I hold my breath until my ribs ache, then drop my hand and step back as I exhale.

“I look forward to every moment,” I manage through the tightness in my chest.

He glances over his shoulder, offering me a snapshot of his profile, and the smile tilting his lips squeezes my core. A fresh trickle of wetness seeps into my panties.

I blindly reach for the outfit I chose and wince in mortification as the hanger rattles on the rack.

Dimitri lifts a brow and turns. I shift my focus toward dressing, needing time and distance to process the intensity of the last few minutes. He follows my lead and takes his handgun and knife off the vanity before returning to his side of the room.

When I pull the undershirt of the first pantsuit on and realize it has a built-in bra, I yank it off and drape it over the rack before snagging the next one in line. The soft off-white fabric hugs my stick-thin torso without feeling clingy or revealing, and even though the suit it belongs with is nice, I pull my first choice over the top of it. The matching maroon waistcoat, jacket, and trousers cover every inch of my scarred body in a professional, competent, and feminine shield, accentuating curves I don’t have without making me feel like a fraud.

When I turn around, I nearly sink to my knees at the sight of Dimitri Volkov in a three-piece suit. The juxtaposition of his bright blue eyes, dangerously handsome face, and the tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white undershirt as rich black fabric encases the rest of his massive frame sends lust rampaging through me. My legs wobble.

Hunger and concern fill his watchful eyes. I limp to the accessory cart and fight a wave of frustration when every pair of the women’s shoes has heels. Even though most are less than an inch, I can’t wear them. Any lift upsets my balance and hurts my joints. Ignoring them, I choose a set of cufflinks and offer them to Dimitri.

His fluid movement as he attaches them to his sleeves is so much of a turn on I forget to breathe.

When he looks up from securing his cuff, I clear my throat and choose a pair of shoes for him. My hands look miniature compared to them. He accepts them with a raised brow.

Have I gone too far? I didn’t mean to take over choosing his wardrobe, but when I lost momentum finding my own clothes, my attention naturally shifted to his.

As he sits on the couch and puts on the shoes, I glimpse a smirk on his face.

A flash of jealousy spears through me as I imagine his first wife doting on him like this.

I jerk my attention to the display of jewelry before he looks up. It’s wrong of me to think negatively of his dead lover when I offer him so little.

“What was she like?”

My mouth moves without my permission.

Despite the jump in conversation, I know he follows my train of thought when his expression grows somber.

“Our marriage was decided by our families, but Anastasia was a loyal wife and devoted mother.” My heart gives a prolonged squeeze. He ties his shoe and rises from the couch. “She was the best interpreter in all of Russia.” He skirts around the cart and lifts my sneakers from the floor. “Artur and Maksim are fluent in Russian, English, and French.” I swallow in surprise as he kneels in front of me and pulls the tongue of my right sneaker open so I can slip my foot inside. “You will not struggle to communicate with them.” After securing my right foot, he does the same for my left before rising to his impressive height.

“They must miss her so much,” my wayward tongue whispers.

“Da. They have scared off every nanny I have hired since her death,” he scowls.

The affection in his eyes burns all the brighter for the stern set of his features.

An unexpected half-laugh escapes my throat.

“I’ve seen this movie before.The Sound of Music, right? I’m sorry, I’m not some young, innocent girl from the nunnery. I can’t heal your kids by singing or make them happy again with sweet little anecdotes. I don’t even know what a mother’s love feels like. I’mbroken, Dimitri,” I snap.

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