Page 138 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

He alternates between little flicks and long strokes, syncing the sensation up with the speed of his fingers. I’m moaning so loud I’m sure the guests in the rooms around us are calling the front desk, but I don’t care.

Let them call. Hell, let them come and watch. They might learn a thing or two.

Dima grabs my calf and lifts my leg over his shoulder, and I wrap my ankle around the back of his neck instantly. I hold him against me, bucking against his lips and his tongue and his breath.

The orgasm feels like being doused in warm water. It starts at my head and flows down until my fingers tremble and my toes tingle.

By the time the end of it is ebbing away, I’m putty against the tile wall. The only thing holding me up is Dima’s mouth, coaxing out every last second of pleasure.

When he pulls away, I stumble forward, dazed and thoroughly ravished. The warm water from the shower head pelts the back of my head, pushing my hair forward into my face, and I gasp.

Dima laughs. “You doing okay?”

I tip my head back, letting the water wash through my hair, and close my eyes, trying to ground myself. Usually, the shower is where I do my best thinking, but right now, my mind is blank.

I take a deep breath, almost embarrassed by how out of sorts I am. I turn around and let the spray run down my face and something about the water seems to purify my thoughts.

I pause, hands in my hair.

Water.

I gasp and Dima plants his hands on my waist. “Are you okay?”

Instantly, it comes to me. “I know where they are!”

Dima looks up, but his gaze drops back down my wet body, still hungry. “Who?”

I shut the water off and grab my towel from the shower bar, wrapping it quickly around me. “June and Ernestine.”

“Where?”

“There was this French bakery June told me about, close to a lake. They went there once and it was the best day ever. June and her grandma wanted to go back there. They even wanted to move there eventually.”

Dima tilts his head to the side. “You think they’re in France?”

“No! The café is in some little town; it’s just French. June had a croissant.”

Dima sighs and pushes his wet hair out of his face. “That’s not a lot to go on.”

“I know, but there can’t be that many French cafes in town, right? Especially not next to a lake! I know that’s where they went. It has to be.”

He stares at me. I know he has his doubts, but I don’t have any. The water cleared my head. I’m confident.

“Finish your shower and meet me in the room.” I climb out of the shower and pad into the room.

I go to the bundle of brochures on the desk and grab one for Albany. There’s a “must-see” section, but no mention of a French diner anywhere.

I unfold it and press it flat on the table, staring down at the crudely drawn map as though the answer will jump out at me.

Even if I can’t find it myself, I can ask around. Someone has to know something. We will find the diner and we will find them nearby. I know it.

When Dima gets out of the shower, I grab his phone from the nightstand and throw it at him. “Type in your password.”

He arches an eyebrow in question, but unlocks it for me and hands it back.

I search for a while, skimming through maps online, looking at listings for all the diners within a thirty-mile radius, and zooming in on every body of water I can find, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of a diner.

But I don’t find anything.

---