The Player (The Game Maker #3)(58)

I pouted. “I picked the exact wrong one, didn’t I?”

“Depends on what I’m served for breakfast.” He swooped me into his arms, and carried me to the kitchen table. “I’m going to eat you up. . . .”





Breakfast, take two.

Everything I’d heated would be cold by now. Good thing there was plenty more. “I’m starving,” I told him as we began foraging.

“I know, I’ve never been so hungry.” Dmitri rubbed his belly, drawing my attention to his chiseled abs and that black trail of hair leading down. . . .

I dragged my gaze away, needing to concentrate on food. Weren’t there some croissants around here? I started the oven again.

“Do you like to cook?” he asked.

“I’m more of a dish-doer.” I went to fetch butter and jam. “But I am an ace at heating and eating.”

“What do you usually like to . . . ?” His voice faded to nothing.

I’d bent over at the fridge for another stick of butter, hadn’t even meant to tempt him. I straightened and whirled around.

“Vika!” He crossed the distance in one long stride and grabbed my waist.

“Just a minute, big guy! You gotta feed me—”

His mouth descended over mine.





Breakfast, take three.

“This time I have to eat,” I said between kisses. He had me pressed up against the counter, trapping me with his body.

“Then why do you keep seducing me?” He continued taking my mouth, so I forced myself to draw back and face him.

“You have two choices, Dmitri. You can control yourself, even when my tits move”—in the throes, he’d told me how wild that sight made him—“or you can go grab me one of your T-shirts.”

“And that is the conundrum of my day? I like this life with you.”

I grinned. I was liking it too. “I’ll strip as soon as we’re through.”

“Not soon enough.” He grumbled in Russian as he strode off. I leaned to keep him in sight. His ass was unreal. I’d left scratches on it over the night.

Inhaling for control, I poured coffee. How would he take his?

When he returned, I traded him a cup for a T-shirt. Had he found the thinnest one he owned? My nipples were visible. Sneaky Russian. “I don’t know how you like your coffee—and how weird is that?—so I made it like mine.”

He took a sip. “Good. Thank you.”

“But it’s not how you prefer.” I narrowed my eyes. “Do you even drink coffee?”

He shrugged. “Not in a year.” He’d had a seriously life-changing year.

“But you accepted the cup anyway?”

Nod.

Awww. “Could you be any sweeter?”

“I am very sweet on you.” He set the coffee aside, getting that look in his eyes—half thrall, half dark lust.

I responded like a lit wick. I did a bad bad thing. Inner shake. “Whoa, Dmitri. Food.”

He sighed. “Very well.”

We rummaged, selecting sliced fruit and breakfast ham.

Once I’d satisfied the worst of my hunger, I asked him, “Do you always sleep so long?”

“Never. And never so soundly.” He seemed a different man. He’d smiled several times—as if his smile had only been awaiting parole. “Maybe it’s all part of the process.”

I was dying to know more, but I could be patient. So I kept it light. “Did we do good last night?”

He lifted me up on the counter and stood between my thighs. “We did amazing, zhena.”

Now that the touch-and-go sexual situation had resolved itself, my usual worry took center stage. My family. I glanced at my ring.

“Something on your mind?”

I gave him my practiced smile. “I thought you couldn’t read people.”

“I can’t,” he said, his eyes lively. “But you stopped eating at last, so I figured something else was occupying you.”

I play-punched his shoulder. “I’ve got a comedian on my hands? You should’ve put a weight clause in your postnup.” I slapped my forehead. “Oh, too late . . .”

He almost chuckled. I was beginning to think of his laughter as a muscle that hadn’t been worked out. We would ease it into use.

His expression turned serious. “I will always desire you no matter how you look.”

I leaned in and nipped his bottom lip. “Lose your rock-hard abs, and I’m outta here.” Excellent, Vice, making jokes about leaving him? Quick change of topic . . . “How do you foresee our days?”

“I want to take you all over the world. Or as far as we can get between your family’s Sunday dinners.”

Dinners Dmitri wouldn’t be going to. “Don’t you have a home in Russia you need to get back to?”

“No. After selling my company, I moved from one property to another.” He added to himself, “Fleeing ghosts.” Before I could ask about that, he said, “We have several properties I think you will enjoy.”

“But you’ll want to live in Russia eventually.” Say yes. Give me one major stumbling block.

“No. I like California. I believe my bride does too.”