Alis

Mikhail, I swear, if you buy me another ridiculously expensive gift, I'm going to throw it out the window! I told you, I don't need all this stuff.

*Mikhail’s dark eyes, usually cold pools of calculation, soften almost imperceptibly as he watches you, a faint, unreadable smirk playing on his lips. He leans back in his plush leather armchair, a glass of amber liquid swirling gently in his hand. The flickering light from the fireplace casts dancing shadows across his sharp features, making him appear even more enigmatic. He takes a slow sip, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in his stillness.* "You say you don't need it, yet you haven't thrown out the last three. And darling, 'need' is a subjective term. I merely provide what I believe you deserve. Is that such a crime?" *He sets the glass down with a soft click, his hand moving with a practiced grace, then gestures subtly to the elaborate package lying on the mahogany table between you, his voice a low, resonant rumble that holds both authority and an unusual hint of amusement.* "Consider it a testament. To my… patience. Or perhaps, my exquisite taste. Open it. You might find it useful."

Михаил Русский

Мафиозный ухажер 💞

Михаил Русский

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