CHAPTER EIGHT
O skar
This is not strange. Not strange at all. Not even slightly.
Dmitri’s fingers still clutch mine when we enter the store, and the saleswomen’s expressions transform from brisk professionalism to open delight.
The women behind the counters beam at us.
“I want best ring in the store,” Dmitri announces, his tenor voice booming.
I tug his hand, and he turns his dark eyes on me.
“That could get expensive.”
Dmitri grins, as if I’ve said something amusing. “Tonight you will have millionaire husband. Not bad, huh?”
“There’s nothing bad about you,” I tell him, and he turns.
My pulse skitters, and a sour taste invades my throat.
“These are our newest engagement rings for men,” a saleswoman says, sliding open a velvet tray.
“Platinum,” Dmitri says. “Will look good with his hair.”
The woman nods. “Yes. He looks like a summer. He has a pink undertone. Silver will suit him.”
Dmitri smirks. “His skin is always turning pink.”
I go still, wondering if he’s cataloged every time I’ve blushed around him. Heat crawls up my neck at the thought.
Does he know I’m in love with him? Sometimes I think he’s completely oblivious. But then, is that why he picked me to marry him?
Here, away from everyone we know, I can pretend Dmitri actually wants to hold my hand. The store clerks coo over us, pronouncing us “adorable” and “cute.”
My gaze darts to Dmitri, because surely he can’t be okay with that. He only nods agreeably. Once he’s satisfied with the rings, we head to our next stop...the hotel.
The limo rolls down Vegas’s large roads, and I swallow down more champagne. The bubbles bounce against my heart, and my body is squishy by the time the limo stops.
The driver opens the door.
We sweep through the towering doors, and my breath catches when I enter the lobby.
It’s beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
Tens of thousands of mosaic pieces shimmer in pastel waves across the floor. My suitcase rattles over the uneven surface.
The casino thunders around us. Bright lights flicker from machines. Violet shifts to yellow then green. Some machines rotate, flashing promises of wealth in crimson red as pixelated fireworks explode in the background. Cheerful fast-tempoed music plays in the background. I move my gaze away from the gaudy machines to the potted trees and celestial sky, the color the sort a Renaissance painter might spend hours blending to get perfect. Stained glass gleams in one corner, welcoming people to its French-themed restaurant.
“See, I took you to Europe for our wedding!” Dmitri exclaims happily.
“Uh-huh.” I force my gaze away, resisting the impulse to linger on the way his lips stretch upward and the sparkle of his dark eyes.
All those people raving about jeweled-colored eyes have it wrong. The most beautiful color in the world is brown.
“Is okay?” Dmitri asks, his voice less confident than normal, and I hate that my facial expression might have had anything to do with making him feel uncertain. “We can go somewhere else if you prefer. Is not most expensive place, but—”
“I don’t need the most expensive hotel in Vegas. I love Paris.”
“Is romantic,” Dmitri says. “Good for wedding.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the hotel reception. Crystal chandeliers cascade from the gilded ceiling, making the area feel more Paris Opera House than US hotel.
Women strut in short blue dresses with not-short slits, holding trays stacked with brightly colored cocktails: Aperol Spritzes and Camparis, the drinks that look good on Instagram, dazzling and eye-catching even on a luxury vacation grid.
All I can focus on is the feel of Dmitri’s hand around mine. He’s making a habit of it.
The desk clerk hands Dmitri our room keys. We navigate toward the elevators. The gold doors slide shut, and the soft whoosh of the elevator and its ornate decor does nothing to lessen the tension thickening between us.
Dmitri and I are going to be sharing a hotel room.
Dmitri and I are getting married.
The elevator pings, and Dmitri exits. I follow quickly after.
He taps the key card and pushes open our door.
My eyes lock onto the Eiffel Tower glowing outside our window. “Wow.”
“Is nice.”
“It’s super nice.” I drift toward the view, passing gleaming surfaces.
The room is larger than any hotel room I’ve stayed in before.
“Let’s get changed,” Dmitri says. “Wedding is in twenty minutes.”
I spin around. “Seriously?”
“I am always serious.” Dmitri removes his coat and flings it on the bed. He then pulls off his soft long-sleeved t-shirt. His chest is bare. Completely. Devastatingly.
I stare, transfixed, then wrench my gaze away.
There were muscles on his chest. So many muscles.
Each plane and ridge makes my fingers itch to touch.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Am not getting married in street clothes,” he says. “And neither should you.”
Dmitri strides to the closet, utterly unconcerned about his half-naked state. He pulls out a luggage rack, metal clicking against metal as he unfolds it. The suitcase lands with a soft thud as he unzips it.
He turns, abs rippling with the movement. “Need help?”
“Um...” My brain short-circuits.
He’s still shirtless. His muscles are still everywhere. My mouth dries.
Then he unbuttons his pants and lowers his zipper.
“Dmitri?” My voice emerges as a squeak.
“Oskar?”
“You’re—” I gesture helplessly at his body, unable to form coherent words.
He tilts his head. “What?”
His pants drop down. He steps from them. Muscular thighs confront me. He’s wearing briefs, the fabric stretched taut over an impressive bulge.
Then he shimmies the briefs down too.
That’s his cock. Right there.
Not hard of course. But magnificent all the same. Substantial.
Not that I’ve seen many of them of course.
Or any of them, in fact. Not in person. My own is always at a different angle.
But there it is. Dmitri’s cock.
God, I—
I’m staring.
I swing around. My suitcase drops from my hand. It clatters to the floor. I shake.
At the next moment, Dmitri is beside me.
His voice is low and soothing. “It’s okay.”
“I-I dropped it.”
“Is fine.” He hauls the suitcase up easily, as if it’s as lightweight as a book. His dick swings with the movement.
“You’re still naked,” I choke out.
He blinks. “Is usually what happens when you change clothes, Oskar.”
“Right, but...” I force myself to look anywhere else.
“Besides, you’re gay,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’ve seen before. Is no big deal, huh?”
Dmitri clearly thinks I’m more experienced than I am. A reasonable assumption, since practically everyone my age has done more than I have.
He returns to his suitcase and starts dressing.
My heart skitters inside me, but I try to emanate some semblance of calm.