Page 33 of The Bratva's Nanny
She kissed my cheeks. “Good morning, Daddy.”
“Morning, baby.”
She looked at me like she knew something I didn’t, grinning as she glanced between Maria and me in between sentences. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye first, weren’t you?”
I cupped her hands as they cradled my cheeks, blowing bubbles in her palm, which tickled giggles out of her. She knew I was. It had been our routine every morning before Maria came to live with us: me standing a distance away while I watched Irina get her ready for school. Then, I’d leave and shower her with fruit tarts after school to keep her pacified.
This time, she’d caught me red-handed.
I shook my head. “No. I came to say hi.”
“Liar.” She giggled and placed a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose. “You knew you were leaving.”
“Fruit tarts?” I bribed, and it was her turn to shake her head.
“Not today,” she murmured under her breath and made round check-ups from my forehead to my neck with the back of her hand. “Are you okay, Daddy?”
“Yes, baby. Why?”
She lifted her small eyebrow. “Had breakfast?”
“A cup of coffee, pumpkin.”
Disappointment replaced the brightness on her face. When she thought I wasn’t taking care of myself, she turned into my little nurse.
A smile fell from her lips, and she scanned my eyes like a doctor would. “That’s not breakfast, Daddy. If you don’t eat well, you could get sick. I don’t want you to get sick. Maria can make you some pancakes. She makes the most delicious pancakes. And brownies, too.”
A light cough from behind interrupted us, and I stopped myself from glancing at her over Polly’s shoulder.
“Uh-huh.” I nodded slowly, keeping my eyes on my daughter’s worried face. “I know, baby. But daddy’s not going to get sick. He is perfectly fine.”
“No, you’re not,” she fired back in Russian.
“Yes, I am.”
Typical. Persistent. Just like me, she wouldn’t give up until she was satisfied with my answers. Gently, her fingers brushed my nose, and I kissed the inside of her palm. But she didn’t giggle as I expected her to.
“You’ve got eye bags, Daddy. You didn’t sleep well?”
Now, I looked at her. And I wasn’t surprised to find her staring right back, like there was even the slightest possibility that she knew what went through my mind. Like she had the same answer I did to Polly’s question.
Which was a solid fucking no.
No, I didn’t sleep well.
No, I couldn’t get a fucking shuteye because she had kept me preoccupied all night, infiltrating every one of my senses. The silvery sound of her voice, vivid images of her hard nipples poking through that fucking silky camisole she had on. Or how her slender curves were so visible that I could see the dips connecting her belly to her hips.
Just thinking about her body, all stripped, naked, and spread-eagle for me, kept me so fucking hard all night that I thought I would burst from sexual frustration.
When I looked back up, she had a rosy blush on her cheeks. One that I found surprisingly so fucking cute, but knew I would never, in a million years, tell her that.
I faced Polly.
“Who is Riley, baby?” I asked instead to distract Polly. Or maybe to really distract myself from thinking about her any longer.
Thankfully, she took the bait, momentarily forgetting about the bags underneath my eyes. The spark in hers returned, and she began babbling about some animated character in a family-comedy kids’ film.
I placed her on her feet and watched her walk back to Maria while still wildly gesticulating as she got prepped for school. They talked more and laughed in between. But I caught her stealing peeks at me in between the conversations.