“It’s not what I expected. Both the good parts and the bad. I thought it would be a new beginning for me, you know? I could be myself a little more than I could back in Russia, where everyone expects you to play a rigid role, and no one wants you to stray from it.” He pulls his arm from me. “Ultimately, it’s why I ended my engagement with Anastasia.”
The Russian gymnast. “Not because of all the supermodels you were sleeping with in the Mediterranean?”
Sergei snorts, and looks at me sideways—wounded. “It’s for show. It’s all for show. When you’re rich in Russia, you’re expected to show your gratitude, and that means accepting whatever is bestowed upon you by your benefactors. Fast cars, fast women, the works. They like for you to remember where your money comes from—and that they can take it away just as easily. Anastasia . . . she was much the same way.”
“That sounds horrible.” I grip the edge of the bench. I’ve slid my heels off under the table, and swing my bare legs back and forth. “Yet you’re not happy here, either?”
“I thought it would be a new beginning for me here. But here, there are different people I must please. It isn’t as direct as it was in Russia, but still it exists.”
People like his brother? I chew on my lower lip. “Why? Who . . . who do you have to please now?” My entire body is tensed up, like I’m bracing for a blow. But I have to ask it. For the FBI—and for myself.
“Just . . . businesspeople. I don’t know. They’re not important.” Sergei waves it away.
Shit. So much for that. “I didn’t realize you cared so much, then, what people thought.”
“It’s part of the territory.” He picks up his drink and finishes it. By the time he sets it down, he’s smiling again. “But I should be focusing on the good. All the wonderful things that make it worthwhile here. The people who really matter.”
I glance at him through my eyelashes.
“Like these incredibly hot, insanely smart Brazilians who keep landing in my arms.”
I stifle a laugh. I want to turn away, but I can’t stop looking at him—those dazzling eyes and that jawline so sharp I could cut myself on it. He slips one hand between my thighs and I suck in my breath. Why, oh, why did I wear such a ridiculously short dress?
“I missed you,” Sergei murmurs, right in my ear. His fingers trace a slow circle against my thigh. “It’s a new sensation for me. Missing someone. Can’t say I’m a fan.”
“I don’t expect anything.” I try to keep a serious expression on my face, though his fingers are like a match striking against my skin. “If you aren’t looking for commitment, I understand.”
“I’ve never looked for it before.” He smells so warm, so fiery. It’s burning me up inside. “But you make me want to be better.”
I tighten my thighs as his fingertip grazes the edge of my panties. At least I’m wearing a black lace thong this time—no grungy cotton tonight. “Better, how?” I ask. I pitch my voice low, painfully aware of my boss listening to our every word.
“I feel like myself. No—like the man I wish I could be.” Sergei leans in. His finger tugs at the elastic of my thong and slides against the edge of my folds. “The sort of man who’d make you proud. Not disgusted.”
“Trust me,” I gasp, gripping his thigh, “I’m far from disgusted right now.”
Someone clears their throat, and our server appears. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the sampler,” she says, eyes carefully averted from us. They must get trained for this exact situation. I blush and crush my thighs together, even as Sergei withdraws his hand. “Might I interest you in any dessert tonight?”
Sergei turns toward me. His expression is sharp with hunger; my own gaze feels dewy, delirious with my insane lust for this Russian god. I dig my nails into his thigh and nod carefully, my body answering every question he’s asking.
Yes. I’m ready for more. I want
The Russian gymnast. “Not because of all the supermodels you were sleeping with in the Mediterranean?”
Sergei snorts, and looks at me sideways—wounded. “It’s for show. It’s all for show. When you’re rich in Russia, you’re expected to show your gratitude, and that means accepting whatever is bestowed upon you by your benefactors. Fast cars, fast women, the works. They like for you to remember where your money comes from—and that they can take it away just as easily. Anastasia . . . she was much the same way.”
“That sounds horrible.” I grip the edge of the bench. I’ve slid my heels off under the table, and swing my bare legs back and forth. “Yet you’re not happy here, either?”
“I thought it would be a new beginning for me here. But here, there are different people I must please. It isn’t as direct as it was in Russia, but still it exists.”
People like his brother? I chew on my lower lip. “Why? Who . . . who do you have to please now?” My entire body is tensed up, like I’m bracing for a blow. But I have to ask it. For the FBI—and for myself.
“Just . . . businesspeople. I don’t know. They’re not important.” Sergei waves it away.
Shit. So much for that. “I didn’t realize you cared so much, then, what people thought.”
“It’s part of the territory.” He picks up his drink and finishes it. By the time he sets it down, he’s smiling again. “But I should be focusing on the good. All the wonderful things that make it worthwhile here. The people who really matter.”
I glance at him through my eyelashes.
“Like these incredibly hot, insanely smart Brazilians who keep landing in my arms.”
I stifle a laugh. I want to turn away, but I can’t stop looking at him—those dazzling eyes and that jawline so sharp I could cut myself on it. He slips one hand between my thighs and I suck in my breath. Why, oh, why did I wear such a ridiculously short dress?
“I missed you,” Sergei murmurs, right in my ear. His fingers trace a slow circle against my thigh. “It’s a new sensation for me. Missing someone. Can’t say I’m a fan.”
“I don’t expect anything.” I try to keep a serious expression on my face, though his fingers are like a match striking against my skin. “If you aren’t looking for commitment, I understand.”
“I’ve never looked for it before.” He smells so warm, so fiery. It’s burning me up inside. “But you make me want to be better.”
I tighten my thighs as his fingertip grazes the edge of my panties. At least I’m wearing a black lace thong this time—no grungy cotton tonight. “Better, how?” I ask. I pitch my voice low, painfully aware of my boss listening to our every word.
“I feel like myself. No—like the man I wish I could be.” Sergei leans in. His finger tugs at the elastic of my thong and slides against the edge of my folds. “The sort of man who’d make you proud. Not disgusted.”
“Trust me,” I gasp, gripping his thigh, “I’m far from disgusted right now.”
Someone clears their throat, and our server appears. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the sampler,” she says, eyes carefully averted from us. They must get trained for this exact situation. I blush and crush my thighs together, even as Sergei withdraws his hand. “Might I interest you in any dessert tonight?”
Sergei turns toward me. His expression is sharp with hunger; my own gaze feels dewy, delirious with my insane lust for this Russian god. I dig my nails into his thigh and nod carefully, my body answering every question he’s asking.
Yes. I’m ready for more. I want
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