Page 11 of The Nanny Goal

When my tummy does a nervous free fall, though, he catches my hand and squeezes. “It’s okay?”

The way he says it is different than in English, more of a question that I interpret asAre you okay?

I nod. I’m fine. Breathless and on the precipice of something I haven’t done before, but very eager.

Too eager?

Screw it. If he doesn’t like my too eager energy, then that’s for him to sort out.

I drag him off the elevator and around the corner, down the hall to my hotel room. My parents are on the same floor, but in the other direction, and they aren’t here right now. That’s a problem for later, when I’m going to have to sneak the hot Russian goalie out. But there’s a stairwell right next to my door.

This is happening.

My fingers shake as I pull out my room key. He takes it from me and turns me around, pressing my back to the door, leaning over me, fisting the key just above my head. A slick, smooth move he’s done a hundred times before, I’m sure. He takes my cheek in his other hand, his fingertips leaving electric pathways on my skin as he angles us together for another, deeper kiss.

This time, there’s no ding to interrupt us.

His fingers sink into my hair, burrowing under my wool beanie, and I wind my arms around his neck, closing the gap between our bodies.

“I want you,” I whisper between kisses.

“Yes,” he pants back.

And then he’s opening the door and we stumble into my room, winter clothes unzipping and falling here and there.

By the time we get to the bed, he’s pulled my shirt out of my jeans and is squeezing my bare waist in his hand, a hot, electric touch that puts the kisses to shame.

I unbutton his shirt as fast as possible, wanting to see the hard, muscled body I can already feel through his clothes. His shoulders are ridiculously wide, the rest of him narrowing down in an exaggerated vee to tight hips that feel as if they were built for wrapping thighs around.

My legs move restlessly against his, already thinking about doing just that.

He settles his weight beside me and tucks me in against him, cocooning me into a warm, delicious kiss-filled space. Up close, he smells faintly tropical, like coconut and something else. It’s unexpected, and I breathe him in as I work at his shirt. When I get his last button free, my fingers brush the erection straining beneath his fly, and my breath hitches.

His, too.

“Touch me again,” he grinds out.

I turn my hand and cover the bulge pressing against his dress pants. Even through fabric, I know his cock is long, proportionate to the rest of his oversized body, and thick enough around that the thought of him being inside me makes my head spin.

“Fuck.” His breath catches, and that’s so unexpectedly beautiful I have to take a second.

Imade Alexei Artyomov make that sound. I did that. Tomboy, little sister, virgin-at-twenty-two-not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-that Emery Granger.

I grin and squeeze him.

“Oh,” he says, a less flattering sound for sure.

“Is that too hard? I’m not sure…”

He searches my face, his expression confused at first, then softening. “It’s perfect.”

It isn’t, but when I ease up, he rocks his hips forward. His eyes burn, andthatfeels perfect. We find a stroking rhythm quickly, and his hands work their way up under my turtleneck.

I haven’t been this aware of my breasts since puberty. Each inch of lazy progress he makes adds another throb of heaviness to my smaller-than-average-and-kind-of-pointy tits.

By the time his thumbs stroke the underside of my sports bra, I’m arching my back and practically preening for his touch.

“This is okay?” There’s a rich, cocky edge to the question, though. He knows it is. He’s teasing me, making me wait and want more than I ever knew I could.

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