Page 17 of Frequency of Attraction

“I’m sure there are other things you’d rather be doing with your free time.”

Was there anything better than lavishing attention on a female body? Anything more satisfying than trying to tease out Quinn’s first orgasm? Unlikely. But he knew confidence would be a huge part of her success. Until she felt confident herself, it would need to come from him.

“Know what I’d rather be doing with my free time?”

“A Victoria’s Secret model?”

Vadim snorted. He couldn’t hide his smirk.

Quinn’s eyes rounded. “Are you serious? You’ve been with a Victoria’s Secret model? Was it Jasmine Tookes? You know what, don’t tell me.”

He wouldn’t tell her that he’d been with three Angels to date. “I’m not allowed to disclose that information anyway.”

“You signed an NDA? Fuck, this is worse than I thought.”

Vadim reached for the flared hem of her blue dress and drew her against his side. “You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say there is nothing I’d rather be doing with my free time than you.”

She blinked rapidly.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she confirmed.

Her eyes wandered back to his body. She held up a hesitating hand. “May I?”

Vadim nodded. Exploring his tattoos was standard practice for women he bedded. He didn’t know why. The art was meant for him alone. But women seemed so sure they could figure him out from studying the ink on his skin.

Quinn moved to face him full on. He watched the curve of her lashes on her cheeks, traced the copious freckles with his eyes. She was beautiful in her own way, with her pronounced features and soft coloring. Her feather-light fingers brushed against his abs and pecs. His shoulders and neck. Vadim felt stirrings he hadn’t expected from Quinn’s touch. As much as he liked brazen and passionate, curious and careful wasn’t so bad, either.

“It’s a map,” she said finally. “I thought at first you were into architecture, with all these landmarks, but your body is a study in geography.” She gently moved his hair to the side. Most of his hair was kept short, but he left it long and styled on top, or, like today, swept to the side. His hair was actually his favorite feature. “Even the constellations are a place for you. This is a map of your life. The earth on your body, your head in the sky.”

No one had ever figured that out before. No one. Vadim hadn’t even known he was drawing a map at first. His brother had told him all his life that he’d never go anywhere. That there was no escape from their hard life. The first time he’d proven his brother wrong, Vadim commemorated the milestone with a tattoo: the bridge in Toulouse, where he went to college. The first place he’d ever been besides Moscow. In every new place, he got a new tattoo as a “fuck you” to his brother and a reward for himself.

Granted, the constellations circling his head had been a premature move when he’d been accepted at Star City. But maybe, with OrbitAll in his life now, it had been fate.

Quinn circled to his back, fingers dragging. Vadim released the hem of her skirt. He wouldn’t let her get far. She paused her exploration, as he knew she would. “I’m right, aren’t I? Except for this one.” She traced the visage in the center of his back. Round cheeks, soft curls, pointed brows, bow lips. “Who’s this?”

“My daughter.”

Her finger stilled. “You have a daughter?”

He nodded. “Mila Samara Petrov, just like her grandmother.” He didn’t mean to say it like that, but he’d read the text from Annika so many times that the words came out verbatim. The first text about Mila had been the photo of the two of them at that park, the one with the ducklings. The second, after much begging, was her name and the confirmation that Mila was his.

“I think she’s about four. I’ve never met her.”

Vadim didn’t know why he felt like confiding in Quinn. She needed him. Maybe he needed her, too.

“Why?”

“Annika, her mother, is troubled. Drugs, mostly. She followed her own mother out here, to Boston I think, but according to her sister, the change of scenery may not have helped.”

“So, you’ve tried to find her?”

Vadim took his phone out of his pocket and swiped it open to the string of texts, switching the language to English. He turned, handing the phone to Quinn. She glanced up at him before scrolling through. She’d see two years’ worth of begging and unanswered questions.

What’s her favorite color? What song do you sing her when she’s afraid? How tall is she? What’s her favorite thing to do? What does she want to be when she grows up? When can I see her? Can I see her? I need to see her. Annika, please let me meet my daughter.Thirty-eight text messages with not a single response.

“I’m sorry,” Quinn said simply.

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