Page 41 of Velvet Chains
I cross my arms and stare out the window, trying to look like I’m not fucking bothered by how damn horny I am and how he just left me hanging, needy and unfinished.
As we pull away, Victor’s cologne hits me like a freaking freight train. It’s overwhelming, making my head spin and my pussy throb.
What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s like my nose is on overdrive, every scent slamming into me like a punch to the face.
I shift in my seat, my breasts aching against the confines of my bra. They’ve been so sensitive lately, the slightest brush of fabric against my nipples enough to make me gasp.
I cross and uncross my legs, the seam of my panties rubbing against my swollen, sensitive clit. I’m so fucking turned on it hurts, my body screaming for the kind of release only Victor’s touch can bring.
Am I really being this stupid? Get it together!
I can’t let myself forget what this is. A business arrangement, nothing more. In 335 days, I’ll be free. Free of Victor, free of this sham of a marriage. I just have to hold on until then.
Right now, I need to know what the hell is going on. So I lean forward, gripping the back of Victor’s seat. “Where are we going?”
He turns slightly, his jaw clenched.
Right, so he hates me. Whatever, I’m over it.
I don’t budge.
Finally, he speaks. “You’ll see.”
I blink, annoyed. “Just tell me.”
His lips twitch. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I huff, frustrated and horny as hell. “I’m not in the mood for games.”
He tilts his face a little, his stupidly handsome face looking forward, but I catch a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.
“Put your seatbelt on,” he commands briskly.
Reluctantly, I shove myself back against the seat and fumble with the belt, clicking it into place while feeling every bit the scolded child. Clenching my fists, I wrestle with the cocktail of lust, anger, and confusion boiling inside me.
“At least tell me how long I’m going to be trapped in this car?” I retort, trying to gather some scraps of control.
Misha chuckles from the driver’s seat, glancing at us in the rearview mirror. “Look at you two, like a pair of newlyweds on your honeymoon.”
“Shut up and drive, Misha.”
I roll my eyes, my gaze drifting to Misha’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. He’s not a bad-looking guy, objectively speaking. But his eyes, those wide, wild eyes, they remind me of the day he threatened to hurt Serena right before I signed that damn contract.
Well, fuck that. I better trust no one.
I turn my head, staring out the window as the city rushes by. It’s only the second time I’ve been out of the mansion since the wedding, and a part of me feels like a prisoner let out on parole.
Misha pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic with ease. He and Victor exchange a few low words in Russian, their voices too quick and quiet for me to catch more than a snippet here and there.
I tune them out; I’m well aware of their little game, their secret-keeping antics.
During the three weeks I’ve been with the Morozovs, they’ve flipped from English to Russian over dinner more times than I can count. It’s clear they don’t want me in on their conversations. Well, thank you, but no, thank you. I couldn’t care less.
I press my forehead against the cool window, watching the city blur by.
I am not sure what’s happening, but my hormones are all over the place, making me feel raw and exposed. One minute, I’m ready to cry, the next I’m fighting the urge to jump Victor’s bones. It’s exhausting trying to keep up with my own mood swings.
