Page 11 of Big Bad Daddy

“Girlfriend? Since when? Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?” Yarina, who has yet to greet me, asks angrily, then twists her scowl into a smile that looks more fake than mine. She looks over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to appear, then nervously nudges us toward the dining room.

As we walk away, a platinum-haired woman with too much makeup, who resembles a younger version of our host, appears at the top of the stairs, dressed to the nines in a tight red evening gown. She descends gracefully, too preoccupied with staring at Boris to notice he’s holding my hand. If that’s Larissa, I almost feel sorry for her. No one has told her presumed conquest has brought a date.

“I didn’t know I had to keep you up to date on my love life,” Boris says, his stern expression serving as a reminder that he’s not the sort of man you scold. “I should think you’d be happy for me.” He looks at me, then her, raising an eyebrow as a warning that she better treat me politely.

Her disappointment is palpable, and her expression remains unchanged.

Yarina turns to the woman in the red dress and prods her toward us. “This is my niece, Larissa. Larissa, you remember, Boris, of course. This is his girlfriend, Sybil. They’ve only just arrived.” Yarina grits her teeth, her fury on full display as Larissa’s mouth falls open in shock.

I swallow hard, uncomfortable being placed in the middle of a setup gone wrong, but unwilling to leave Boris’s side. Larissa looks thoroughly defeated but greets us both through pouty lips. Boris offers a look of sympathy and then guides me toward the dining room.

“She really likes you. I feel bad for her,” I whisper as we tread slowly behind other guests, moving at a snail’s pace.

“You shouldn’t. Larissa is a terrible person who is used to getting whatever she wants. She cozied up to my daughter, Vivi, and pretended to be her friend to get to me. When that didn’t work, she cut ties without explanation.

“Oh, that’s horrible. True friends are hard to come by.” I grip his hand tighter, and he surprises me by lifting it to his lips. Boris plants a small kiss on my wrist and beams with pride as he wraps an arm around my waist, allowing a few fingers to graze the curve of my ass.

I should protest. A lady would at least pretend to be offended, but I’m not sure I could pull off such a bold-faced lie. Every touch of his warm hands feels like heaven. Why in the world am I so attracted to this man? I’ve never liked the bad-boy type and he’s leaps and bounds worse than that.

“You’re a good friend, sweetheart. You’ve gone above and beyond for Scarlett,” Boris murmurs as he guides me toward the far side of the room.

I greet people as we walk, smiling awkwardly as my anxiety intensifies. Yarina and Larissa speak in hushed tones behind our backs. They’re not talking loud enough to discern the words, but I can tell by their tone that it’s not good. Boris made sure wearrived just in time for dinner. According to him, the less time we spend here, the better.

“How long have you been together? Last time we spoke, you said a relationship didn’t interest you,” Larissa says as she rounds the dinner table and places herself directly across from Boris, her mountainous cleavage on full display. She came to play and brought the big guns with her.

“Yes, I’m curious, too. I was almost certain you’d remain single forever,” Yarina chimes in, playfully leaning into the table while sipping from a flute of champagne. Guests in expensive suits and evening gowns fill the empty chairs around us, but her gaze remains focused on me.

“Dobryy vecher.”A chorus of men and women greet one another with “Good evening” as they settle into their seats. Everyone here has met before. I’m the only newcomer.

“Dobryy vecher.” Boris lifts his champagne glass and offers a quick nod to the man seated next to Larissa. Someone calls him Gavril and he resembles Tasha enough for me to assume he’s her cousin. She only recently told me about her family’s involvement in the Pushkin Bratva. Her father was the old don, or whatever they call themselves, but his death made her male cousins fight one another for the right to lead. Gavril won. He can’t be more than thirty years old.

Boris angles his body toward me and slips his arm over the back of my chair. “We’ve known one another for a few months, but things only recently became serious. What can I say? It took the right woman to motivate me,” Boris answers Larissa, then turns to me, his bedroom eyes making me sway in my chair.

“You’re the most beautiful woman here. No man can look away. I might have to put them all in their place.” Boris brushes the hair off my face and whispers in my ear.

I can tell he’s annoyed with their disrespect but he’s doing an excellent job of keeping his cool.

“Larissa can’t take her eyes off you,” I whisper against his cheek, purposefully illustrating my claim by openly flirting. I don’t know why it bugs me so much. This is meant to be a fake date, not the start of something more. He’s not really my boyfriend. But he’s not hers either.

“She’s got nothing on you, baby girl. I’ve never felt so much pride sitting next to a woman. If only you were truly mine. I would never come down from this high.” His term of endearment makes me weak in the knees. His words make me flush with desire.

I reach for my champagne to cool off and buy time to steady my racing heart. He’s a talented flirt. Much better than I could have imagined. But does he mean any of it?

“You’re a model, aren’t you? I believe I saw your picture in Times Square last weekend. It’s an incredible photo but it does not do you justice.” A man on the other side of the table with piercing green eyes nods and lifts his glass as a sign of approval.

I’m unsure if that was a question or comment, but I offer a slight smile, not knowing how to answer.

The man is tall, dark, and handsome, but nowhere near as gorgeous as Boris. There is simply no comparison.

Boris places a hand on my forearm and answers, “I agree. I’ve never seen a photograph of Sybil that is as gorgeous as the real thing. I’m a lucky man.” His hand drifts lower and slides across the silk fabric of my dress, gently caressing my thigh in a provocative manner.

I could stop him. His fingertips are inches from my damp pussy and I’m sure this can be considered crossing the line. I know he’d remove his hand if I asked, but that’s the last thing I want right now. He needs to keep going. I want to know if he genuinely wants me the way I want him.

“You’re too kind,” I reply, then take another gulp of champagne, hoping to douse the fire Boris is kindling—at least until we’re alone.

“I didn’t realize you were dating an underwear model. That doesn’t seem like your type,” Larissa slurs her words and takes another swig of champagne.

“I don’t model underwear,” I immediately clarify and move closer to Boris, intentionally rubbing our fake relationship in her face.

---