Page 24

Chapter 24

Caught Red-Handed (and Red-Faced)

Dmitri

B y the time we pull into the driveway, Ris is crashing hard, the last of her sugar-fueled energy fading fast. She fights it, blinking slow and heavy, her little fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as I lift her from the car seat.

“Can we watch a movie?” she mumbles, already half-asleep against my chest as I carry her upstairs. “Just a little one?”

“Time for bed, Amnushka.”

She sighs, warm and boneless in my arms, nuzzling into my shoulder the way she used to when she was tiny. “But I wanna stay up with you and Erin.”

“Tomorrow,” I murmur. Putting her gently into her bed, I press a kiss to her curls. “Erin will be here tomorrow.”

She perks up slightly. “Promise?”

Something sharp twists in my chest. Because no, I can’t promise that. Not when Erin’s future is still undecided, slipping further from my grasp every day.

“Sleep now,” I whisper, tucking her in, smoothing back her wild curls.

“Papa?” she murmurs, her voice barely above a breath.

“Da?”

“I really like Erin.” Her words slur together as she sinks deeper into sleep. “She makes me happy…”

My heart actually stops.

“And she makes you smile more.” Ris’s tiny hand finds mine, squeezing weakly. “Can she stay? Not just for now, but…forever?”

I swallow hard. “It’s complicated, Amnushka.”

“Why?” She frowns, her little face scrunching up. “She makes you happy. She makes me happy. And she likes us too.” Another yawn, long and drowsy. “I can tell.”

If only it were that simple.

I wait until her breathing evens out before slipping from the room, her words a relentless echo in my head.

And then I see her—curled up on my couch, one leg tucked under the other, bathed in the soft glow of a lamp. A book balanced in her hands.

Like she belongs here. Like she’s already ours.

Like keeping her might be the most important thing I’ve ever done.

“Ah, Dostoevsky.” I recognize the spine of Humiliated and Insulted . “Most underappreciated of his works.”

She glances up, her lips quirking. “Worth reading?”

“It’s about unrequited love, solnyshko .” I take the book from her hands, setting it aside. “Not something you need to concern yourself with.”

Her breath catches, and there is a flicker of heat in her eyes, her pulse jumping at her throat.

She doesn’t move when I lean in.

“The translations don’t do it justice anyway.” My lips graze her ear. “Some things are better in their original form.”

“Like what?” Her voice is barely there, breathy and wanting.

I answer by claiming her mouth.

She gasps, melting into me instantly, her hands sliding into my hair, pulling me in. I shift, pushing her back against the couch, swallowing the little whimper she makes when my hands slide under that ridiculous off-the-shoulder sweater, fingers mapping soft, warm skin. The kiss thrums deep in my bones.

“We should talk,” she pants between kisses.

“Later,” I murmur against her lips, grinding against her, making her feel my hard on. She’s soft in my arms, her breath gusting across my lips. “You need to take care of your man first.”

She makes a desperate little sound that shoots straight to my spine.

Enough .

I scoop her up, her body soft and pliant against me, taking two stairs at a time. I need her spread out on my bed, to devour her the way she deserves.

We’ll talk tomorrow.

Tonight, I’m going to remind her exactly who she belongs to.

I kick the bedroom door shut behind me. I set her on the bed, and the second her back hits the mattress, she’s reaching for me, yanking me down, her legs wrapping around my waist and locking me in.

“Show me how much you missed me,” I groan against her throat, teeth grazing her pulse.

A sharp inhale, then: “Check for yourself, Papa Bear,” she teases, putting my hand on her center, hot and pulsing under the harsh material of her jeans.

Brat .

I unbutton them and slide my hand to her scorching pussy. She’s wet and hot and ready to play. My mouth crashes against hers, swallowing her moan. Slowly, I slide lower, trailing a hot path down her neck, to that mind-blowing sexy shoulder she likes to show off.

“Lift,” I say, pulling the sweater over her head, and she obeys willingly, baring an expanse of smooth, soft skin and two perky tits begging me to lick.

“No bra,” I growl, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, down between her breasts, my tongue tracing heat over every dip and curve and finally settling on a tight little furl pointing at me eagerly.

She’s already a mess beneath me, twisting in the sheets. Her hips roll up to meet mine, her breath coming fast. “Dmitri,” she pleads, fingers tunneling into my hair.

“Shhh,” I murmur, dragging my teeth over her skin, reveling in the way she trembles beneath me. “You’re always so impatient, solnyshko .”

“You’re edging me again.” She pouts, milky thighs locked around my hips. “And you know what I want.”

I chuckle, low and dark. “Tell me anyway.”

“You,” she snaps impatiently. “I want your cock inside of me.”

I groan, lifting up just enough to slide her pants and panties off, leaving her completely bare, sprawled beneath me to feast on. Slowly, I work my way down her body with gentle brushes of my lips until I reach her clit.

“Such a pretty naked pussy.” I drag my tongue up the length of her bare opening, pushing two fingers in, playing in her wetness until I reach her clit and gently bite it. She nearly jumps off the bed, but my hands hold her firmly in place. I lick and suck until my face is covered in her juices, circling her clit with my tongue. My solnyshko is jumping my face, incoherently begging. She’s soaked, twisting and writhing and arching into my touch, and I curl a finger, seeking that spot that unravels her.

“God, Dmitri?—”

“That’s what you need, huh?” I lap at her as I put her trembling legs over my shoulders, opening her wider.

Her body convulses as the orgasm rips through her in waves, bumps rising on her skin, and I stay between those glorious thighs, sucking and lapping through her peak until she stops convulsing around my tongue.

“You are pretty when you come, solnyshko ,” I say as I lift up and tug my T-shirt over my head, sliding my pants and boxers down in one fluid movement. I lean over her, letting her taste herself on my mouth before I flip us over so that she’s straddling my waist.

“Come sit on my cock,” I demand, holding my shaft in my hand, pumping my swollen crown and guiding it to her glistening entrance. But she’s not obedient anymore, smiling wickedly and leaning over me.

“Big guy is an appropriate name for you, Papa Bear.” She smirks and trails her hot breath down my chest, teasing my nipple with her nail. “And now I want to lick and suck your big dick.”

“ Der’mo, solnyshko , open up for me,” I grind, teetering on the edge just from hearing her filthy talk. Without hesitation, she parts her pink lips and swirls her tongue over the head of my pulsating rod. She fists the base, licking me, then swallows my tip, pushing it down her throat and gagging. Her eyes water, her lashes fluttering as she looks up at me, and damn, the sight of her is enough to shred every ounce of control I have left in me. I fist her hair and tug.

“Come up and take me in that tight cunt,” I growl, thundering need building up. “Or I’ll come all over that pretty face.”

But my solnyshko is a brat tonight, and she just digs her nails into my thighs and bats her lashes, taking me deeper into her throat and sucking me down. Hot tears pool in her eyes, and I grab her face, tensing my core in a last-ditch attempt to maintain control. After another stroke of her tongue, I lift her, and she wraps her legs around my waist, teasing my crown with her wet cunt.

“Fuck, solnyshko ,” I hiss, and she slowly lowers and embeds me in her heat. Her tight channel hugs and caresses me as she begins moving up and down, circling her hips.

“Open those pretty eyes, solnyshko . Look at what I’m doing to you.” She lowers her gaze, heavy lidded, looking at our bodies connecting. I slam my hips up, holding her firmly. I withdraw and slam into her again, her body rocking over me as I bury myself deep inside of her. She moves, her tits bouncing, dragging her nails over my chest.

“More,” she begs, whimpering and closing her eyes again.

“Eyes on me.” I slide back out, then push back in as she looks at me, her gaze hooded. Her trembling thighs squeeze around me. My eyes are glued to her tits, swaying with each snap of my hips.

“Fuck, Dmitri.”

There’s not a whisper of space between our sexes. We are both desperate as we’re grabbing and scraping and grinding at each other.

“Are you ready to give me what I want?” She nods, her back arching, her hands pressed on my chest. She lifts up, then inches down, changing the pace. My hands slide to her hips, digging into her flesh and moving her where I want her. “You take me so good. Will you come for me again? Milk my cock with that tight little cunt.”

“Yes, yes,” she cries out, and I lift up to hit a different angle as she tenses around me, shudders racking her perfect body, her tight channel squeezing me.

I slow my thrusts and flip her over, fucking her slowly through her orgasm. Once she is done thrashing, I cup her ass in my hands and drive back in. She’s whimpering as I set a punishing pace, slamming into her until my muscles contract. The churning in my balls fires up my shaft as I erupt in a heart-stopping burst, spilling into her and marking her as mine.

I’m not ready for things between us to be over.

* * *

Dawn barely touches the windows when the unmistakable sound of tiny feet thunders down the hall. Years of early practices make it impossible for me to sleep past six, even on rare off days like this. But Erin is still curled against my chest, her copper hair spread across my pillow like wildfire, and for once, I have nowhere to be until tomorrow’s game.

“Papa! Papa! I had the best dream!” Ris’s voice is way too enthusiastic for this ungodly hour. “We were at the beach and?—”

The door flies open because my child has never heard of knocking, and I’ve apparently forgotten how locks work.

Ris skids to a stop, clutching her stuffed penguin, her eyes going comically wide at the sight of Erin in my bed, and my brain goes into full-blown panic mode.

Think, Sokolov.

I’ve faced split-second plays in overtime, dodged brutal checks from opposing players, taken pucks to the ribs at full speed, but nothing in my life has prepared me for explaining to my six-year-old why her nanny is in my bed.

My brain cycles through options at warp speed. Erin was cold last night. Risky. Too easy for follow-up questions. We were just talking. Flat-out ridiculous. Ris knows talking doesn’t require me to be shirtless. Erin is now officially part of my sleep-training program for elite athletes. No one would buy that. Not even me.

And of course, before I can land on something solid, my brilliant daughter decides to fill in the blanks herself.

“Oh!” Ris blinks, clutching her stuffed penguin. “Did you have a nightmare?”

I nearly sag with relief. Yes. Perfect. Let’s go with that.

But before I can confirm, Ris scrambles onto the bed like a detective closing in on a case. “Papa lets me sleep in his bed when I have one. He’s really good at chasing them away. One time, I dreamed a giant octopus ate my ice skates, and Papa stayed up for hours telling me stories about how octopuses are actually very nice and probably just wanted to learn figure skating.”

Next to me, Erin makes a strangled noise and vanishes under the covers, only a tuft of red hair visible. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Something like that, Amnushka,” I manage.

Ris tilts her head, studying me like I’m an exotic zoo animal. “Is that why you’re not wearing a shirt, Papa? Did you have to fight the nightmares?”

Jesus Christ.

Erin full-on whimpers under the blanket.

“Anyway,” she continues, completely oblivious to Erin’s muffled groaning, “in my dream, we were on Fire Island, and I was finally old enough to go to the candy store by myself—which I totally am now, by the way—and I bought ALL the gummy bears. The red ones AND the green ones.”

“Ris—” I try, but she’s on a roll.

“And Erin was there too! She was playing the cello on the beach, and the seagulls were dancing, which probably wouldn’t happen in real life, but it was really cool in the dream. Oh! Can Erin come to Fire Island with us? She can share my room if she’s still scared of nightmares!”

My heart actually stutters. Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask her exactly that. We spend every summer there—three months of sand, sun, and kids running wild on bikes. Kaycee’s family rents a house two doors down every August. It’s the kind of summer I wanted for Ris after Elena died. Safe. Happy. Surrounded by friends. Late afternoons, once the lifeguards are off duty, Kaycee and Ris are like a shot, launching themselves off the stands into the sand until the parents finally wrangle them away for showers and dinner.

And now, I want Erin there too. I want to wake up with her, the scent of salt air drifting through the open windows. Want to watch her play on the deck at sunset, fingers pulling music from the strings as the waves crash in the distance. I want her woven into our summer, our life—our everything.

But I haven’t figured out how to say come live with us without sounding like a crazy person.

“For fuck’s sake,” Erin mutters into the pillow.

“That’s a bad word,” Ris informs her smugly. “Papa says we have to put a dollar in the swear jar when we say bad words. Except when he stubs his toe, then the rules don’t count because Russian doesn’t technically count as swearing.”

“Ris,” I try, because if this conversation continues much longer, Erin might actually explode. “Why don’t you go get dressed? We can talk about Fire Island later.”

“But I haven’t told you about the part where the ice cream store was giving away free?—”

“Now, please.”

She sighs dramatically but slides off the bed, heading for the door. Then she pauses, holding up Mr. Waddles. “Don’t worry, Erin. Papa’s really good at cuddles. And if you’re still scared tonight, you can borrow Mr. Waddles. He’s very brave.”

Before leaving, she spins back again. “Can we have pancakes?”

“I’m up,” Erin groans, emerging from her blanket cocoon with impressively mussed hair. “I’ll come make some. Though I should probably?—”

“Speaking of up,” I murmur, “I certainly am.”

Erin’s eyes widen, then her face flames.

“Papa is up too!” Ris exclaims. “And he makes the best pancakes. You should come help, Erin.”

“I’ll go change first,” Erin mumbles, frazzled.

“But you’re wearing Papa’s shirt,” Ris points out. “That’s good for cooking.”

I absolutely do not laugh at Erin’s face.

“Give us five minutes, Amnushka. Go pick out your clothes.”

The second Ris bounces out, Erin flops back onto the mattress, dragging a pillow over her face. “Oh my God.”

“Could be worse,” I muse, nuzzling her neck. “She could have come in last night. I forgot to lock the door.”

“Dmitri!”

“What? I’m just finding the silver lining?—”

“We should talk and sort this out,” she cuts in.

My entire body goes still.

But before she can continue, Ris’s voice carries from down the hall.

“Babushka’s coming next week! I can’t wait!”

Erin groans like she’s dying and yanks the pillow over her face. “Kill me now.”

As Ris’s steps fade, Erin peeks out from under the pillow, her face matching her hair.

“So,” she says weakly, “Fire Island?”

“Beach house,” I confirm, grinning at her disheveled state. “We go every summer after playoffs. No cars, just sand, houses, bikes, and kids running wild. Ris loves it.”

“And the seagulls?”

“Lots of them. But sadly, they don’t dance.” I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But the nightmares there are terrible. You will need someone to comfort you.”

She grins. “Right. You wish.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night, solnyshko .” I graze my lips along her ear, feeling her shiver.

“Papa!” Ris’s voice carries through the door. “Can I wear my skating dress? Also, do octopuses really like figure skating?”

Erin dissolves into silent laughter against my shoulder.

“I should get up.” She sighs. “I promised to take Ris to Kaycee’s this afternoon. You should take it easy and recharge before tomorrow’s game.”

“Stay a little longer.” I tighten my arms around her, not ready to let go. Not ready to face the day. Not ready to think about how badly I want to ruin her all over again.

“PAPA! I CAN’T FIND MY SOCKS!”

“Coming, Amnushka!” I call back, then turn to Erin with a grin. “This is parenthood.”

She throws a pillow at my head, laughing.

We need to talk.

Tonight.