28. Laila
28
LAILA
“You know, it takes a brave woman to eat at one of these events. I could never. I really admire your independence.”
Jessica Rabbit is beside me again, armed with a bright smile and a fresh coat of lipstick. I, meanwhile, have a shrimp tail hanging out of my mouth.
Not that it matters. I ate my lipstick off within ten minutes of walking through the doors.
I swallow a barely-chewed bite of food as she claims the seat next to me without invitation. “Yeah, well, when I’m hungry, I eat. Call me a feminist icon.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes take in the carnage of empty plates and glasses in front of me. The only edible thing remaining is a wilted lettuce leaf. “I admire that you’re not worried about unnecessary weight gain, too. Pregnancy is the perfect excuse to let loose.”
Just like that, my appetite shrivels. This bitch is very good at what she does.
I slide my plate away. “Elenor, right?”
“Elenor Martinson,” she says, hiking up her bustier as if her insane cleavage is a suffix. Elenor Martinson, Her Royal Chestiness. “I would have introduced myself earlier, but the vultures were circling. Everyone wants to meet you.”
I fake a laugh, glancing around for Arsen or Dominik or anyone who can save me from this conversation. No white knights in sight, though. I could pull the pregnancy card and excuse myself to use the bathroom, but just the thought of getting on my feet again makes me feel faint. My hip has been screaming bloody murder at me for the last hour.
“It makes sense. I mean… Arsen Adamov, married , not once but twice?! And so soon after the tragic death of his wife, no less.” She sighs forlornly, but the momentary sympathy disappears almost as soon as it started and she gets this calculating look in her eye. I’d bet dollars to donuts that the next thing that comes out of her mouth is gonna be some premeditated murder type shit. “Well, his first wife, anyway.”
Nailed the guess, Lai. Nice work.
I don’t even try to hide my eyeroll. “Yes, I’m his second wife. Oh, the shame. Oh, the horror.” I dismiss her with a wave. “If you’re here to make me feel bad about that, you severely overestimate how much I care about your opinion.”
Her thin eyebrows arch in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“You are either here to make me feel bad that Arsen had a life before I met him—or, best case scenario, you’re just another vulture looking for the inside scoop. But with bigger boobs and a better nose job.”
“I came over here to be nice ,” she hisses. “I came over because you’re eating shrimp alone. You looked pathetic.”
I smile sweetly. “Don’t feel bad for me. The shrimp was better company.”
She shoves her chair back and stands up. “Fine. You can spend the rest of the night alone for all I care.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
She huffs away, swinging her white-blonde hair over her shoulder as she goes. I almost feel bad, but when I notice her heels are two inches taller than mine, yet her ankles are svelte and unswollen, that feeling burns away.
There’s a dark chuckle from just behind me. “What a show.” Arsen’s eyes are bright with amusement.
“How long have you been lurking there?”
“Since Elenor sat down.”
“Just perfect.” He takes the seat the witch just vacated, and I cast him a gloomy look. “That wasn’t one of my finer moments.”
“On the contrary, I thought you were extraordinary.” I narrow my eyes at him, waiting for the catch. But he just smiles. “You held your own. It’s tough to do with Elenor.”
“Spend a lot of quality time with Jessica Rabbit, do you?”
“Would it bother you if I said yes?”
“Would it bother you if I said I didn’t care either way?”
We stare at each other, locked in a stalemate of sorts, though I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what the stakes in this little skirmish are all about.
Finally, I look away, picking nervously at the tablecloth. “I would’ve thought you’d pick someone a little more intellectually stimulating to spend time with. Talking to that woman is probably like playing tennis with a brick wall.”
“I’m here with you, not her, aren’t I?”
I poke at a smear of food on my plate. “She’s going to tell everyone that your new wife is a colossal bitch.”
“Well, you did tell her you’d rather talk to a dead shrimp. She might not be wrong.”
“Touché.” I take a sip of water. “I shouldn’t have let her get to me. I’m blaming it on the heels.”
“What’s wrong with your heels?”
I lift the hem of my dress and show him my hideously swollen ankles. I can even see the dagger-like red marks, courtesy of whichever genius at Ferragamo decided to make straps out of what is apparently barbed wire.
“It’s no big deal,” I insist when I see his face curdle into that stormy, Arsen-is-about-to-do-something-rash look I’ve come to know so well. “Nothing a long soak tomorrow can’t fix.”
“You should have said something.” He makes a grab for my foot under the table.
“What are you doing? I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine; you’re in pain. Let me see your feet.”
“Not unless you pay me cold, hard cash, buddy.” I try to smile, but Arsen isn’t in a joking mood. He makes another swipe under the table. “No, really! It’s okay. It’s not even my feet. Heels can aggravate my hip.”
His eyes darken, and I realize I’ve somehow made things worse.
“That’s chronic pain for you,” I joke weakly. “Always flaring up at the most inconvenient times. But I’m used to it, so?—”
He grabs my right leg suddenly and hauls it onto his lap. Despite the thunderous set of his mouth, his hands are gentle on my ankle as he releases my foot from its designer bear trap.
“Is that better?”
God, yes. Much.
“I can’t be barefoot in here,” I whimper. I offer a shaky smile in the direction of a few curious passers-by before turning back to Arsen. “I’ll take my shoes off when we’re on the way home, okay? Now is not the appropriate time.”
I try to pull my leg back, but pain shoots up my hip. I can’t stop the wince in time.
“You’re still in pain,” he accuses.
“Nope. I’m peachy. Never better, actually. Set me loose on the dance floor, and I’ll prove it.”
I try to pry my leg out of his grip; instead, his hand slips under the high slit of my dress and up my thigh.
“Arsen! We’re in public.”
“How does that feel?”
“Like a misdemeanor.” But my indignation is overrun by the urge to sigh in relief.
Arsen works strong fingers into the knot of muscles along my upper thigh and hip. “I kept you on your feet too long.”
I’d offer up a saucy retort about how he could put me on my knees instead, but my mouth has abandoned ship in favor of letting my whole body bask in the warmth and comfort of his hands.
Arsen missed his calling—he should’ve been a masseuse. He’s been touching me for barely a minute, if that, and already, the pain in my hip is receding. My feet have stopped throbbing. Even the pounding in my temples has dulled.
Which is probably why, when he strokes his thumb along the crease of my hip, I lose all sense of where I am and moan .
It’s not subtle, either. I really go for it. The sound is soul-deep and heartfelt. And “volume control” is not one of its virtues.
The moment it escapes my lips, my eyes fly open. I know there are still people talking and laughing and music is still playing, but the room might as well be dead silent.
I can’t bring myself to look around and see who is watching, but I know they are.
“Oh my God.” I dip my chin and hope my hair will hide my shame. “Please tell me someone else made that sound.”
“‘Someone else made that sound.’”
“Liar! That’s even worse! Oh, God.” I drop my face into my hands. “Get your hand out of my dress. I cannot be the woman who nearly orgasmed in public!”
“Was that what that moan was?” He’s only joking—he knows what I sound like when I really orgasm. “I guess I don’t know my own power.”
“That’s not what— I’m saying it’s what people think happened.”
“And there will be no dissuading them now. You’re going to be the talk of the party,” Arsen teases even as his fingers slip between my thighs.
“What are you doing?” I squeeze my legs together, trying to keep him out even though every fiber in my being is dying to let him continue. “People are staring.”
Arsen is close enough that I can’t look away to confirm my theory. I can only hold his gaze. “Let them fucking stare.”
“Arsen—”
“You’re my wife,” he growls. “It’s my duty to take care of you. If I want to stick my hand up your dress, I will. If I want to make you come right here in the middle of the ballroom, I can do that, too. And I just might.”
“You wouldn’t,” I breathe, half-defiant, half-disbelieving.
“Watch me.”