Page 133 of Dirty Damage

Artem would beat my ass for what I’m about to do.

But now that it’s there, I can’t let it go.

I can’t lethergo.

“I have a trip to Sardinia in two days to meet with a client. I want you to come with me.”

“You want me to…” Her voice peters off, a smile stealing her words. Until reality crashes in and steals that, too. She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She lowers her face, but I catch her bottom lip pinched between her teeth. “For starters, I don’t have a passport.”

I don’t say anything, but the lift in my brows must say enough because she drops her face into her hands.

“Being a foster kid meant I was a little too busy figuring out where I was sleeping to cross countries off my bucket list.” She blows out a breath. “Your mother’s right. You deserve?—”

“I’m going to stop you right there. Any sentence that starts with ‘your mother’s right’ is usually wrong.” She tries to say something else, but I press my thumb to her mouth to quiet her. “We could both use a breather. And we’ll take one in Sardinia.”

She waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Still no passport.”

I curl my hand around her cheek, brushing along her cheekbone. “Just focus on packing and leave the rest to me.”

I watch her face light up as though I’ve promised her the moon.

And all I can think is?—

I would literally do anything to keep that smile on her face, all day, every day.

For the rest of our lives.

39

SUTTON

Italy has turned me into someone I scarcely recognize.

A week in Sardinia with Oleg, and suddenly, I’m the kind of girl who gets naked to ambush hot billionaires in hotel suites and seduce them into skipping business meetings.

The kind who goes two rounds in bed, one more in the shower, and then still finds the hunger to ask for fourths before he’s allowed out the door.

Back home, there’s a contract with my name on it. A sister who won’t return my calls. And enough emotional baggage to sink one of Oleg’s precious yachts.

But here?

Here, I’m just a woman falling for a man who makes multiple orgasms feel like the night is just getting started.

Oleg has been different here, too. Less growly, more playful. He talks to me about work and his surveillance tech venture, sharing little pieces of himself between sheets and shower walls.

Sometimes, I catch him looking at me like I’m more than just his baby mama-to-be.

It’s probably the Mediterranean air making us both crazy. Or maybe it’s the way his hands feel when they grip my hips.

Either way, I’m choosing not to think about what happens when this bubble bursts.

It’s surprisingly easy when I’m standing on the bow of a super-yacht, looking across rippling aquamarine waves.

It gets even easier when Oleg presses himself against my back, his hand exploring the slit of my emerald green dress like he designed it himself.

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