Page 20 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

“Gigi, we need to talk about this.”

“Do you like me?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I mean, IthinkI like you. We’ve only just met.”

“Well, I know I like you, Vasily. And I have hardly anyone in my life to talk to, other than stupid Vera.”

“Who is Vera?” I ask.

“My nanny,” she says with a bitter laugh.

“Your…nanny? Youarean adult, right?” I squirm beneath her, worried.

“Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I am almost twenty-two. And yes, I understand how stupid it is that I have a nanny. She has been with me since I was a child, despite my many protests. She was one of my father’s mistresses and she remains loyal to him, so he trusts her to keep an eye on me.”

“And why would she need to keep an eye on you?”

“I already told you; my father is psychotic about maintaining my safety. Therefore, I go to work, and I go home and there is nothing in between and it is a very boring life.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek as I assess her.

“I am a thirty-year-old man, Gigi. We are not children, and I will not sneak around like some teenager just to see you. Why don’t I just speak to this Vera person, introduce myself, and…”

“And nothing,” she interrupts. “Vera hates Ukrainians. She thinks they are all Nazi’s.”

I scoff at this. “We talked about this.”

“Yes, and I shared that I disagree, but she does not.”

“Well, has she ever met a Ukrainian?” I ask. “I have a law degree. I work for a U.S. Senator. Perhaps if she met me, she might.”

This time, she interrupts me with a kiss.

CHAPTER 9

Galina

There is no future for me with Vasily Kyrylo; I know that.

Even if I were free to come and go as I please, there would be the fact that he is Ukrainian, and my father would never approve. I cannot see a way to remove myself from the scrutiny of my father. He is ever-present, even half a world away.

Still, as I kiss him, our mouths tasting of cool, white wine, I can imagine so many other outcomes, other scenarios.

I do not have a lot of experience with men. Well, really, none. Andrew, by comparison, was a boy. He was perhaps only slightly younger than I am now, but vastly younger in spirit than this man before me now. Vasily, no doubt, is aman.

Vasily is slightly shy as he kisses me, his beautiful, full mouth warm and tentative on mine. He lets each move be mine to make. When I pull his shirt over his head, my eyes go wide. He is studious-looking, professional, but his body is glorious. Strong, broad shoulders are the widest part of a V that ends in a slim waist, rippling abs warring for attention with defined pecs.

I touch his face, loving the feel of the thick five o’clock shadow there. I touch his curls, slightly too long over his collar,in his eyes. And oh, his eyes. They are richly brown, slightly sad, and infinitely intelligent.

His cock is semi hard where I straddle him, nagging at the thin fabric between us. I like that he wants me like this. And I want him, too. Badly.

My tongue flirts with his bottom lip and he opens for me, letting me in. I keep my fingers in his glorious hair as I move my body against his. It feels like too much is between us, and I grow frustrated before looking down at my sports bra.

Vasily reaches to pull the zipper down and the pink fabric falls to the side. With both hands, he pushes it over my shoulders, down my arms, until it falls somewhere behind me.

My breasts are small, nothing to write home about. In fact, I have a short moment of worry that Vasily will not like my dancer’s body. Thin enough that my ribs show, breasts small, hips narrow. I have sleek muscle, yes, especially in my legs and glutes, but my arms are sticks. My knees and elbows are knobby.

I must let him see all of this in my expression because his eyes meet mine and he says, “You are beautiful.”

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