His hand slides lower, cupping the curve of my ass before moving between my thighs. He presses on my pussy through the thin fabric of my pants, fingers tracing my slit with perfect precision. He rubs slow, firm circles over my clit, the pressure building and building. My hips arch into his touch.
“Goddammit, Roman.”
He chuckles, knowing he’s got me right where he wants me. “Look at you,” he says. “Grinding against me. You’ve wanted this since you woke up this morning, haven’t you?”
I wince, both from the pleasure and the fact that he’s right.
A moan tears from my throat. It’s insane how he knows just how to work me. His thumb circles harder and he brings me right to the edge, teasing. I’m soaked, my pussy throbbing, the edge approaching so quickly. I’m nearly there, so damn close?—
A flicker on the monitor catches my eye. A maid rounds the corner, cleaning supplies in hand, just steps away. Roman sees it too. He stills and pulls back. His hand withdraws, leaving me clenched around nothing. He glances full-on at the screen, then at me.
The door slides open with a softwhoosh.The maid freezes when she sees us. I freeze too, breathing heavily, my cheeks on fire, my body buzzing like I’ve been struck by lightning.
Roman stands there casually, like he hadn’t just ten seconds ago been rubbing me to near-climax.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” the maid blurts out.
“It’s fine, Irina,” Roman says. “I was just showing Amalie the panic room. I should’ve remembered this was your morning to clean it.”
“No,” the maid says, a heavy Russian accent on her words. “I should have knocked first.”
“It’s quite alright,” Roman replies.“Typically no one is in here.”
I squeak out something that might be a greeting or the impersonation of a dying animal. Then I scramble out frombetween Roman and the wall, nearly tripping over my own feet. My pulse feels like a series of explosions in my head.
“Sorry, sorry,” I babble on the way out, nearly knocking Irina over. “Sorry!”
Behind me, I swear I hear Roman laugh as I run away, just like I did last night, painfully aware that this man finds my loss of control amusing.
CHAPTER 8
AMALIE
The late-winter cold hits me as soon as I step outside. It’s the kind of cold that makes you realize just how tired you are of winter, eager for the first thaw of spring.
My breath fogs instantly, little white puffs drifting ahead as I make my way across the vast expanse of the estate. Tall trees hem the borders. I can’t even see the far end. It’s hard to believe I’m in the middle of Chicago.
There’s a little dusting of snow on the ground, just enough to crunch under my boots. I pass a gorgeous garden, the plants dormant for the winter, a few stately granite sculptures rising from the white ground.
After a bit of walking, I hear the sound of rhythmicthwacksand the faint echo of a man’s voice calling out instructions. And then the tennis court comes into view.
Steam rises in lazy ribbons from the heated surface, curling into the gray sky. Snow is banked up along the edges of the fencing while the playing surface itself is bone dry.
I can’t help but smirk at the sight of it. Of course a man like Roman Barinov would bend winter itself to his will.
Sasha darts across the court with surprising speed for such a little guy. His swings are fierce, full of power and concentration. His cheeks are flushed pink, his black curls bouncing with each step. His coach calls out praise in a thick Russian accent, clapping when Sasha lands a clean return.
I watch for a moment, my heart doing that stupid little swell it seems to have reserved exclusively for this child. I’ve only known him for a couple of days, but already he’s managed to inspire my caring and protective nature.
They wrap up a few minutes after I arrive. The coach ruffles Sasha’s hair, sending him off with instructions to stretch and re-hydrate. Sasha instead runs straight to me, breathless and a little triumphant.
“There’s my tennis pro!” I say as he arrives. “How’d you do?”
“Three rounds,” he says with a small smile. “That’s how many I won.”
“You’ve got to give me a bump for that one.”
I offer him my clenched fist for a pound. He regards it for a moment, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it. Then, with a smile of realization, he pounds it with his little fist. Then he starts shivering.
