I’d talked to him for less than two minutes, seen him for less than ten, and his effect on me was this strong?
To hell with it—he could spurn me all he wanted to, but he couldn’t keep me from fantasizing about him. With a mental Screw you, Russian, I reached between my legs to stroke, picturing his broad shoulders, his square jawline, his mouth. Those hooded golden eyes.
Even in the water, I could tell how slick my pu**y had grown, my forefinger gliding along my lips, parting them. When I reached my clitoris, I found it swollen and supersensitive.
Sighing with need, I began to rub the bud in slow circles. My lids slid shut, and my knees fell wide against the sides of the tub. With my free hand, I petted my br**sts, thumbing my ni**les till they strained. . . .
I debated fetching one of my trusty vibrators from under the bed. But then I pictured the Russian kissing down my torso with that scorching expression, and realized B.O.B. could sit this one out.
Though I’d never had a guy go down on me, I could all but see the Russian’s dark head between my thighs as he began to lick. Another stroke had me undulating in the water, gasping. His lips would be firm against my weeping flesh as he hungrily tongued me. He’d want me wetter and wetter, and I’d oblige.
In this fantasy, my aching clit wasn’t throbbing against my finger, but against his greedy tongue.
As my body tensed for my orgasm, every inch of me seemed to gather in on itself, like a star about to explode. I rubbed my palm over my taut ni**les, another shot of stimulation. So close, only a couple more strokes . . . I cracked open my eyes to watch myself writhing in the throes. Corner of my vision, strangest thing . . . through the steam, I thought I saw the Russian.
In my doorway, gazing down at me with smoldering eyes.
Broad chest heaving as he gnashed his teeth.
Muscles tensed as if he was about to fall upon me.
I squinted through the haze. Surely my muddled mind was imagining this? Was I that drunk? I was right at the razor’s edge of coming, my toes already curling. As I met his mesmerizing imaginary gaze, my sneaky finger decided to give my clit one more shudder-inducing flick.
He exhaled sharply, big hands opening and closing. His expression said that he was about to seize my body and eat me up, bit by little bit.
So close . . . Then it registered that he was actually standing in the doorway of my bathroom.
The Russian had broken into my house and was spying on me, like some psycho!
I shot upright, drawing a breath to scream, but he cut me off: “Cover yourself, Natalie.” His voice was rough, his brows drawn tight. “We need to talk.” With a vile curse in Russian, he strode off.
Cover myself? Talk?
Night-stalker-serial-killers didn’t say shit like that!
I was so confounded, I couldn’t manage a scream. My mouth moved, but no words came out. I scrambled from the tub, reaching for a towel, and secured it around me. Even in the midst of this turmoil, I hissed in a breath as the terry cloth rubbed my ni**les.
Casting around for a weapon, I plucked off the cover of the toilet tank, hefting it over my shoulder in a batter’s pose. From the safety of the bathroom, I called, “I don’t know what you’re doing in my house. But you need to leave now. Or I’ll call the cops!”
“I was sent here by your father,” he replied from my bedroom.
I swayed, and my makeshift weapon faltered. Considering his Russian accent—and the timing—I knew he had to be talking about my biological father. Still I said, “My dad died six years ago.”
“You know that’s not the one I’m referring to.”
In a rush, I demanded, “What do you know about him? Who are you? Why did you break into my house?”
“Break in?” Scoffing sound. “Your key was under a plastic rock. For anyone to find,” he added in a chiding tone. “Your father is a very important—and wealthy—man. He’s assigned me to be your new bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard! Why would I need one?”
“Anyone in a family with a ten-figure net worth”—I gasped at that—“needs protection.”
“You’re saying he’s a . . . billionaire?” Was I getting punked? Maybe that was in rubles or something.
“Correct. His name is Pavel Kovalev. He just learned of your existence a short while ago, through the investigator you hired.”
I now knew my father’s name.
I’d initially wanted to learn about my birth parents because I possessed an overdeveloped sense of curiosity. Then it had occurred to me that I might have gotten my sense of curiosity from my parents.
After that, I’d imagined a man and a woman in their forties, mired in endless wondering about the child they’d given up to a Russian orphanage twenty-four years ago. The thought had pushed me to take on yet another job, to keep digging relentlessly. I’d searched not just for my sake, but for theirs.
But he’d never known I existed? Then I frowned. “My investigator? Zironoff? He hasn’t returned my e-mails or calls.”
“He was made aware that we would be handling this internally going forward.”
“Oh.” Thanks for the heads-up, dickwad. At least I hadn’t gotten ripped off again. No, I’d . . . succeeded.
After six years of searching.
I tottered from shock—and residual tequila. I returned the tank cover to its spot before it dropped on my head like a cartoon anvil. “If you’re my bodyguard, then why were you spying on me in the bath?” I snagged my pink robe, hastily swapping it for the towel. “Huh?”