“I needed the money,” I admitted.
He opened his eyes, shaking his head. “Sure, but I pay for a movie ticket, and I buy paintings and museum entrances. Paying artists is part of the social contract. Otherwise, we don’t get to have plays or paintings or books.”
At least someone understood why they needed to drop the money in the hat.
“But it was more than that,” he said. “Like every single one of my asshole ancestors who happened upon something sparkly, I wanted to collect you. I wanted to tuck you away and make youmine.”
By marrying me, he’d kind of done that.
Nicolai glanced down my body from where he hovered over me, his heated gaze tracing the curves of my breasts above the dress’s low neckline and trickling lower, over where the copper silk draped on the black corset underneath. I could almost feel his gaze stroke where his eyes tracked. “I wanted to look at you, to marvel at you, to experience your art. And now I can’t stop thinking abouttouchingyou, about having you in my bed. About your skin under my hands and under mymouth.”
The image of his hands and his mouth on my skin spun in my mind.
So, maybe that waswhyhe’d picked me out of the crowd.
I’d been flipping over everything that hadhappened on Friday night in my head ever since he’d passed out in that cruddy hotel room at Caesars Palace, rolling every moment back and forth like a toddler batting a ball.
Why me?
Nicolai’d had to swim through dozens of people, maybe a hundred, to reach where I’d stood on my suitcase.
Why hadn’t he picked someone else,anyone else,out of the crowd flowing around us?
Beyond seeing my poufy white dress and making the obvious connection between seeing a wedding dress and getting married, maybe his thing aboutcollecting mewas why he hadn’t gotten derailed from his monomaniacal quest that crazy first night.
Buying a license from the Marriage Bureau, finding a Russian Orthodox Church and priest, and going through three different Orthodox sacraments was a lot to ask of a drunk, especially with me complying as slowly and maliciously as I could.
Maybe his motivation hadn’t entirely been vodka-fueled poor impulse control.
Maybe some of that night’s unrelenting obsession had beenreal.
But it definitely hadn’t been love at first sight. That would be weird. That kind of thing didn’t happen in real life.
I didn’t believe in beautiful, magical moments likethatanymore.
But maybe Nicolai’s interest in my pathetic little theatre show, maybe his autocratic desire tocollectme, maybethathad been real.
Vodka had definitely been part of Nicolai’s questionable life choices that night. I shouldn’t discount how hammered he’d been. Marrying the first chick he’d seen had probably seemed like a good idea at the time.
I probably shouldn’t read too much into what he’d said,other than he’d seen me, had an impulse tocollectme, and then done it.
“Every moment I spend with you, I wantmore.”His eyes met mine, locking my gaze. “I want to pin you to the bed and stroke you until you’re beggingsoI can have you.”
Oh.
So he did want to smash, probably.
Maybe that had been part of it, too. My wedding dress’s foundation did have an integrated push-up bra. My boobs had looked great on my wedding day.
But he didn’t really want to smash. He was telling me all the reasons why hewasn’tgoing to make a move. He was still rejecting me, and my pride smarted like a hard spank.
So I verbally punched back. “Yeah, whatever. You’dtryto make me beg. I’ve been holding out my whole life. I can say no to anything.”
I said to the guy who was on his hands and knees above me.
His eyes narrowed. “I could get you to yes.”
Nah, nah. No way.I was not manipulatinganyoneinto sleeping with me, not even my legal spouse. Somewhere, sometime, I would find the right guy, I hoped. “My dude, you have an arrogance problem.”
