Page 33 of Dirty Grovel

We’re not even friends.

Oleg seems to imply the same thing when he meets my gaze for a split second, nostrils flaring dangerously.

“Out,” is all he says before he stalks off down the terrace towards the ocean.

11

SUTTON

It feels like the beginning of one of those cabana boy romances.

The heroine, feeling bleak and slightly bloated, puts on a swimsuit and heads down to the pool for a much-needed swim, only to find that it’s occupied.

The intruder?

Six foot something of absolute, jaw-dropping male perfection.

His freestyle technique is absolutely flawless. He doesn’t displace even a drop of water as he slices through the pool like a shark, his muscles rippling with strength as they propel him forward.

When he finally stops, his skin is glistening under the sunlight, drops of diamonds glittering in his hair.

I can see his abs through the water, beckoning me forward for a closer look.

I’m very close to drooling all over the nude crochet bikini I’ve chosen to wear today.

It veers closer to scandalous than I would usually choose. Under normal circumstances, I would have stayed far away from it.

But since I know just how riled up Oleg gets when he sees me in bikinis constantly, I decide to fan the flames a bit.

What I didn’t expect was to findhimin the pool, turning all my resolve into putty at the very sight of him.

He stops swimming and twists around at the far end of the pool. His eyes land on me and I freeze, caught in the crosshairs of that golden gaze.

Busted.

I snap my gaping jaw closed and cross my arms, pretending as though I wasn’t just caught ogling him like he’s a piece of meat.

“I can come back later.”

“Why?” he asks, his eyes skimming up and down my body. “The pool’s big enough for the both of us.”

Clearing my throat, I walk around to the head of the pool and dive in. My technique isn’t nearly as smooth or as skilled as Oleg’s, but I’d like to think I’m a half-decent swimmer.

I throw myself into a passable freestyle, and after a few minutes, I realize that Oleg is swimming right alongside me.

It’s companionable enough to be encouraging.

When my chest is heaving from the workout, I pop out of the pool.

I’m very aware that Oleg is watching and that I’m giving him a nice view of my ass.

I twist around, ready to grab a towel and cover myself up when I realize I never got one.

“It’s okay,” Oleg says, reading my expression. “I’ll get you a towel.”

He pulls himself out of the pool and I have to concentrate as hard as I possibly can to keep my jaw from dropping yet again.

The man is the epitome of masculine beauty. Even the scars hugging the right side of his face just make the perfection stand out that much more.

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