Page 47 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
Instead, my stomach drops at the sight of his black Porsche pulled up to the curb. And there he is, leaning against the front wheel well with his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
Mikhail.
The car is sleek and far too luxurious behind him, making him look even more expensive than usual. With his hair slightly out of place on top, the breeze catches a stray lock, letting it rest over his eyes.
I hate how I notice those details, and how it causes my heart to stir.
Regardless of the disdain I have for him, it’s not my fault he’s hotter than any man I’ve seen before.
Glancing around, I’m relieved there doesn’t seem to be anyone looking in my direction.
Being seen getting into a luxury car shouldn’t feel embarrassing, but doing so wouldn’t exactly give me a low profile. Universities are big and heavily populated, but people still manage to talk and spread the word anyway.
At my approaching footsteps, he glances up, and a small, satisfied smile pulls at his lips.
That makes me squirm.
For a beat, this looks normal, almost like he’s just a typical husband picking up his wife.
That may be exactly what we are, but there’s nothing normal about this situation.
“You’re here,” I say, needing to fill that remaining space between us with the first thing on my mind.
“I am. And you’re done,” he says, stating the obvious while he stands to his full height and props the door open for me. “Get in.”
I hesitate, meeting his gaze to find his eyes intently on me. Letting go of a soft breath, I step inside and take my seat on the plush interior.
It’s not that I don’t want to see him or have him pick me up personally, but I can already feel the lines beginning to blur. There’s something too intimate about him being here and picking me up like he cares.
Him being anywhere near my campus is unsettling, like it’s an instinct to keep the two parts of my life separate.
Once I’m settled in, he carefully closes the door behind me and then moves back to the driver’s side.
Immediately, the smell of his cologne hits me first while it tangles up with the scent of luxury. And the moment he gets in, starting the engine up again, his warmth floods in between the spaces.
His watch glints while he pulls out, heading for the main street. Then, Mikhail glances at me, taking in my features as if checking for any kind of damage.
“Were there any problems?”
The sincerity in his question throws me off-kilter for a moment before I correct myself.
“Aside from the guard watching me like I was a hostage, no,” I mutter, annoyed by how comfortable the seat is.
He smirks at me, letting his hand smoothly glide across the steering wheel while he takes a left turn. “You are a hostage, technically. Just one with better accommodations than most.”
He’s attempting to crack jokes. Of course he is.
I glare at him, but he doesn’t pull back.
“You’re still angry with me.”
“It’s only been a few days; do you expect me to be thrilled about adjusting to this life you’ve sprung onto me?”
Mikhail hums, keeping his eyes on the road while rush hour is well underway. “You agreed to it.”
“I was coerced,” I mumble, gaze sharper at him.
His amusement lingers, and the teasing lilt in his tone doesn’t go unnoticed by me. “Were you coerced last night, too? Or perhaps the time before that?”
