Page 9

Chapter 9

The Russian Restraint

Erin

T he morning passes in a blur of settling in and trying very, very hard not to think about Dmitri.

Not about how he looked at me in the gym, like he was seconds away from pinning me down. Not about his voice dragging over my skin like gravel when our fingers brushed. And definitely not about how his eyes tracked me in the kitchen, dark and starved.

I practice. I unpack. I answer emails about upcoming gigs. I absolutely do not spend twenty minutes reliving the way his thighs flexed during Bulgarian lunges, or how the veins in his forearms bulged when he gripped the bar. I do not imagine those hands on me, gripping my hips, sliding up?—

Nope. Absolutely not.

Around noon, the front door opens and closes.

The quiet rustle of Dmitri moving through the kitchen sets my nerves alight. I glue my eyes to my laptop, pretending I’m deeply invested in my YouTube analytics while tracking his every move with laser focus.

The microwave hums. Containers open and close. A fork scrapes against a plate. Each sound sharpens my awareness, reminding me that he’s close. Probably fresh from morning skate, hair still damp from the shower at the facility?—

Stop it, brain.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs. A door closing.

Right. Pre-game nap.

Very important. I definitely should not be thinking about him sleeping just above me. Probably shirtless.

My phone buzzes. Sophie’s perfect timing saves me from the downward spiral.

[Sophie]: Coffee? Now-ish? Before pickup duty starts?

[Me]: YES PLEASE. Need to escape this house.

[Sophie]: That bad already?

[Me]: Just...meet me at Moonbeans in 15?

Twenty minutes later, I slide into a chair across from Sophie at our favorite coffee shop, clutching my London Fog like it holds the meaning of life.

Sophie eyes me over the rim of her oat milk latte. “Spill,” she demands, pushing a cookie toward me. “How’s the move in going?”

“Fine.” I take a too-large sip, immediately burning my tongue. Perfect. Now I’m injured. “Great. Totally normal. He’s just very...growly.”

Her eyes gleam. “Growly?”

“You know what I mean. All stoic and Russian and,” I wave my hand vaguely, “intense.”

“Mmmhmm.” She breaks the cookie in half, studying me. “We noticed some…tension at dinner the other night.”

I nearly choke. “Tension? What tension? There was no tension.” I wave a hand like I can physically bat the lie away. “Just a totally normal, non-tense dinner with my brother’s very ordinary teammate.” I pause, then add with a sigh, “Who happens to set me on fire just by looking at me.”

Sophie grins like she’s won the lottery. “I knew it.”

“And then the gym—” I clamp my mouth shut, but it’s too late.

Her brows shoot up. “The gym?”

I groan, covering my face. “Also fine. Super manageable. Totally keeping appropriate boundaries and not at all noticing how his very impressive quads bulge.” I peek between my fingers, setting my cup down. “Sophie, I like him. Like, really like him.”

Sophie gasps dramatically. “You don’t say.”

“But he keeps scowling at me!” I throw my hands up in exasperation.

She shrugs. “Sounds to me like he really likes you too.”

“Speaking of…I’d so really like to have a piece of him,” I sigh, sinking deeper into my chair. “But he’s my employer. And a dad. And Liam’s teammate. And?—”

“He’s probably in his bedroom right now doing his pre-game nap thing,” Sophie muses, tapping her chin. “In his underpants.”

I groan. “Or naked.”

“Maybe he’s even touching himself a little,” she supplies very helpfully, a grin splitting her face, sipping on her latte like she didn’t just destroy my life. “To release some tension. And is he actually scowling? Or is that just his face?” she continues.

“Both? I don’t know.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Sometimes he looks at me like he wants to eat me for breakfast...” My voice trails off as the memory slams into me—the way his gaze burned this morning.

Sophie rests her chin on her hand. “And then?”

“And then he goes full Commander Grumpy and barely speaks in full sentences.” I sigh. “It’s infuriating. And stupidly hot.”

She smirks. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Avoid him at all costs, I suppose.”

Sophie snorts. “That’ll work great, considering you live in his house.” She leans forward, her expression shifting from amused to serious. “Liam’s a little worried, you know. About both of you.”

I frown. “Both of us?”

She takes a slow sip of her coffee, watching me carefully. “He says Dmitri’s been...off. Distracted.” Her gaze flicks over me. “And you’re clearly…” She gestures vaguely at my general disaster state.

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” I protest weakly. “Just need to adapt to the new situation. Learn the routines. Definitely not think about how he says my name in that accent or how his large hands look wrapped around his coffee mug or what other parts of his body might be large—” I stop, mortified. “Oh God, I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

“A little bit.” She squeezes my hand, fighting a grin. “But hey, he is ridiculously hot, and it’s only been a day. I’m sure it’ll get easier.”

Except...I don’t want it to get easier. I want it to get so hard that he snaps.

I sit back, stirring my tea absently, the words forming before I even realize I’m saying them. “It’s like I drank four cups of coffee after a sleepless night. I’m shaky and tingly and buzzing all over. And I feel like nothing I do will have any consequences.”

Sophie lifts a brow. “Oh?”

I exhale sharply, then make the decision. “So, I’m thinking...maybe I go for it. Make it real hard for him to resist. Maybe he’ll be up for some casual hanky-panky with his daughter’s nanny.”

Sophie’s jaw drops. Then she gasps, reaching for my hand. “Erin.”

“What?” My heart is already thundering. “He wants me. I know he does. I see it every time he looks at me. He’s just holding back.” I take a deep breath, my voice lowering. “I don’t want him to hold back.”

Sophie’s eyes widen before she lets out a delighted giggle. “Oh my God. He’s gonna look so good wrapped around your finger, E.”

I laugh, heat curling in my stomach. “I can’t help it. I got it real bad for this dude. And the more he growls, the more I want to break him.” I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been plaguing me for days. “Do you think he’s bossy in the bedroom?”

Sophie nearly chokes on her cappuccino before dissolving into giggles. “That’s absolutely a possibility, girl.” She smirks, fanning herself. “You better go and find out. You owe this information to womankind.”

Before I can reply, my phone alarm chirps—time for school pickup.

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “It shouldn’t be this complicated.”

Sophie just grins, sipping her latte. “I give him three days before he cracks.”

Oh, I fully plan to make sure of it.

“I’ll see you at the game tonight!” she calls after me as I head for the door.

The game. Right. Hours of watching Dmitri slam other players into the boards, all power and grace and dominance.

Exactly the inspiration I need to figure out how to make him snap.

* * *

The carpool line at Ris’s school is a masterclass in wealth and weaponized small talk. Luxury SUVs gleam under the afternoon sun, their drivers locked in the kind of polite-yet-cutthroat gossip that only Westchester moms can pull off.

And, of course, there’s Melissa.

Standing at the center of a perfectly curated group of women, expensive blowouts and designer outfits, radiating the distinct energy of people who very likely consider Pilates to be a competitive sport.

Her voice carries effortlessly over the hum of idling engines. “Oh, look who it is!” A dramatic pause. “Ris’s new nanny.”

I paste on my best performance smile. “Melissa! How lovely to see you again.”

She eyes the Range Rover with a mixture of approval and calculation. “That’s Dmitri’s car.”

“He’s very particular about safety,” I say smoothly, channeling my inner Jessica. “Plus, his BMW isn’t exactly practical for school pickup.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but before she can say whatever undoubtedly sharp thing is on her tongue, the school bell rings. A flood of kids bursts through the doors, spilling onto the sidewalk in a whirl of backpacks and sneakers.

Ris spots me instantly.

“Erin! We’re going to the game tonight!”

She barrels into me with all the force her tiny frame can muster, nearly knocking the air from my lungs. I steady her, laughing, hyperaware of the watchful eyes of the moms.

“We are,” I confirm, helping her into the car. “But homework first, remember?”

Ris chatters the whole way home, debating which jersey to wear, which player she thinks will score first, and whether Papa will do his “special celebration.”

I guide Dmitri’s Range Rover through the tree-lined streets, trying very, very hard not to breathe too deeply. But his scent lingers in the leather—warm, clean, unmistakably him. It seeps into my senses, into my bloodstream, into places it has absolutely no business being.

How many times has he sat here after practice, still damp from the shower, hands gripping this steering wheel?

Those hands. The ones that send men flying into the boards like they weigh nothing. The ones that could?—

Focus, disaster woman. You are driving a child.

“Papa said he has a surprise for me!” Ris announces, kicking her feet excitedly against her booster seat.

“Is that right?” I keep my voice light, even as my pulse jumps at the thought of seeing him. “Then we better get you home so you can find out what it is.”

The second I pull into the driveway, Ris is scrambling out before I can even put the car in park.

“Papa! We’re home!”

I take a second to gather myself before following her inside. But the moment I step through the front door, my rational mind gets steamrolled by a tidal wave of hormones.

Because there he is.

Dmitri Sokolov, sprawled on the living room couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other resting on a book—long fingers idly stroking the spine.

His long legs are spread just enough to send my brain straight into the gutter. And those jeans—worn denim hugging thick, powerful thighs—make it downright impossible to climb back out.

Then I catch a glimpse of the cover.

Boris Pasternak.

I don’t speak Russian, but I recognize that name. Poetry . And judging by the worn edges and softened spine, this isn’t some prop for a brooding hockey player aesthetic—he’s read this book. Loved it. Held it in his hands enough times for the paper to remember his touch.

I swallow hard.

The late afternoon sun catches the sharp edge of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, turning him into something out of a fever dream. This is the kind of man who ruins you for all other men.

Get. It. Together.

“Papa!”

Ris launches herself at him. Dmitri barely blinks before catching her mid-air, setting his book aside like an afterthought.

“There’s my little star,” he murmurs, his voice deep and thick with affection.

I swear to God, I feel it everywhere.

“How was school?”

“Good! We learned about planets, and I drew Saturn! Miss Kelly said mine had the best rings in the whole class!”

Dmitri’s entire face softens, like she’s just handed him the universe.

And that right there—that quiet, unguarded tenderness does something reckless to me.

Because this is the Dmitri the cameras never see.

The man who reads poetry.

Who looks at his daughter like she hung the damn moon.

“Ah,” he murmurs, reaching behind the couch. “Speaking of stars...”

He pulls out a tiny Defenders jersey, perfectly miniaturized, his own #55 emblazoned on the back with SOKOLOV stitched across the shoulders.

I don’t know whose heart melts faster—Ris’s or mine. But she doesn’t hold back, letting out a squeal so high-pitched I’m surprised the windows don’t shatter. “It has my name!”

“Now everyone will know you’re my biggest fan.”

He helps her slip it on, his huge hands careful with the delicate fabric, his touch so impossibly gentle that my heart stutters.

Fuck, I want his jersey on me.

I want those hands on me.

“Erin!” Ris twirls, beaming. “Look! Just like Papa’s!”

I force my throat to work. “Very cool,” I manage, gripping the back of the chair so I don’t collapse into it. “Perfect for tonight’s game.”

Dmitri stands, and my pulse jumps. Because damn .

His henley clings to the solid cut of his torso, his jeans riding low on his hips, the perfect mix of softness and power. And then— then —his eyes catch mine, and suddenly the whole room feels electric.

“So, I’ll see you guys there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” My voice comes out breathier than I mean it to.

He steps closer, and my fingers tighten around the chair, a useless attempt to steady myself.

“Good,” he murmurs. His eyes flick over my face, as if searching for something, as if memorizing me. “Having you there…” He pauses, then softer, “It matters.”

My stomach flips.

There’s a raw, barely restrained edge in his voice, a crack in the armor he’s so determined to keep in place. And just like that, I know, without a single shred of doubt, he’s struggling too. This isn’t just me spiraling over his broad shoulders, his big hands, or the way his voice wraps around my name like a caress.

This is him, trying so damn hard to hold the line.

But damn it, I don’t want him to.

I want to wreck him.

I want to push him to the edge and watch him shatter.

Before I can say anything—before I can act on the heat clawing up my spine—my phone buzzes.

[Liam]: Fair warning—your Russian’s a mess today. Whatever you’re doing to him, you need to stop.

My Russian.

Oh, how I wish.

Heat floods my cheeks, burning all the way down my spine.

When I glance up, Dmitri is still watching me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes… Oh God, his eyes.

He knows.

He knows exactly what I’m thinking.

And worse? He likes it.

My thighs press together on instinct. One look. One look, and I need to come so badly I might combust.

“I should…” I gesture vaguely toward the stairs, my voice embarrassingly uneven. “Dinner. Homework. With Ris. Before the game.”

“Of course.” Is it my imagination, or does his voice sound rougher? “I need to head out anyway,” he continues. “Pre-game routine.”

“Right. Hockey. The game. That thing you do.”

Jesus Christ, Erin.

His lips twitch. “That thing I do, yes.”

He crouches to kiss Ris’s head, murmuring something in Russian, something warm and sweet that makes her giggle. Then he stands, moving past me toward the door.

And his fingers graze my waist.

It’s the barest touch. A whisper of heat. So light it could have been an accident.

Could have been.

But the way it sets my entire body on fire? That’s real.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I exhale—slow, shaky, barely in control of my limbs.

“Erin?” Ris tugs my hand. “Can we do homework now, so we won’t be late to see Papa play?”

“Yeah,” I say faintly, still feeling the phantom press of his fingers on my waist. Still feeling everything.

“Let’s do that.”