He was a lucky man to have her in his life. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. He wouldn’t. No matter what he had to do and no matter what they would become in the future.
“You two look good together.” Paul’s gaze flicked over Dima from head to toe. “Damn good, but better without the fake tan. Both of you.”
“Competition necessity. I’m glad to ditch it.”
“How long have you two danced together?”
The chuckle Dima bit down was sudden, sparked by an instantaneous memory. “Sometimes I think too long.”
“Nuh-uh.” Paul leaned a shoulder against the edge of the bookcase. “There’s more to it than that.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“You can. You will.” That sunshine grin was infectious.
Dima walked away, shaking his head and laughing. He had to check on dinner before it burned and they were forced to order in. Paul followed. The small kitchen didn’t really provide enough space for two men. The air pressed in on them both, filling with Paul’s scent.
The other man stretched his arms to grab the doorframe. The pose accentuated his wide shoulders and the way his ribs slanted down to lean hips. “I know a dirty look when I see one. You ought to know, I’m not letting this go. I can be very persistent when I want to be.”
That Dima could believe. Paul would have needed to be either sneakily persistent or damned lucky to entice Lizzie into climbing him after such short acquaintance. Still, Dima couldn’t help some teasing of his own.
Testing, rather. He wasn’t sure how this night would proceed. A strange tension zipped around the room, but that could be all in his head, left over from this morning’s practice. Lizzie had ridden his thigh as if they could fuck while standing, while dancing, while fully clothed and without any need for privacy. How could he simply shake off that feeling? Dima didn’t want to.
Under the guise of reaching for the salt, Dima stepped near Paul. Near enough that he could make out the individual gleam of bristly stubble on the other man’s jaw.
Paul’s nostrils flared as he assessed Dima through slitted eyes, but he didn’t move away.
Dima turned back to the stove as he smiled. “You can’t tell Lizzie this. It’ll likely get me in trouble.”
“Giving me ammo? You’re a brave man.”
“Were you under the impression we’re in competition?” Dima showed his teeth. He didn’t mean it in a nasty way, but that idea struck him wrong. Frightened him, maybe. If he were in competition for Lizzie, he would need to endure the thought of losing her. That would mean their joint flirtation with Paul had no future at all. The man would be an obstacle to Dima’s plans, not a hot prospect.
Paul only grinned. It was becoming more and more apparent he was a good man. Or at least an easygoing one. The vibe he got off Paul was so different than the unease he’d endured when seeing Remy’s hands on Lizzie. Dima had been ready to flay the Cajun into thin strips. He’d known on some level that Remy wouldn’t hesitate when it came to taking. No rules and no nod to long partnerships. That Paul was willing to take a guided tour rather than shove his way into the apartment, have a seat on the couch and pat his lap, expecting Lizzie to climb aboard—it said a lot about his willingness to share. To have a little fun.
Maybe he was just what Dima and Lizzie needed. Hopefully they could give him something he needed as well. He’d mentioned a good time. Yes, they’d have to work on that. Dima knew he had a competitive streak as wide as the Atlantic, but that didn’t mean he was a user. Too many dancers succumbed to the potential bitterness of their industry. They burned bridges, backstabbed and stepped on people as they climbed up the professional ladder. One of the reasons why he and Lizzie had always been so compatible was that they never took that easy, petty road.
Dima never had with a lover either. Fairness. Honesty. It was the only way to deal with people.
“I wouldn’t dream of telling,” Paul said. “Spit it out before Lizzie shows up.”
“How long she and I have danced together? Long enough that I got my first hard-on over her.”
Paul’s rich, deep laugh filled the kitchen—and was abruptly cut off. His eyes went wide before he turned in the doorway.
Lizzie. After poking Dima in the back, she stood with her arms crossed over her chest and one toe tapping.
If Dima said anything, he’d get dishes thrown at his head, but mad looked good on her. Her cheeks flushed red. Her low-cut dress displayed cleavage that bounced with a huff of annoyance.
“Your first hard-on?”
Paul’s mouth quirked. He hopped backwards to sit on the counter. “I am definitely staying out of this one.”
Dima carefully put down the spoon and took her by the shoulders. The bright blue dress skimmed down from her breasts, hugged her trim waist and ended high on her thighs. The kiss he placed on her forehead was slow and soft. “You look beautiful, little one.”
“Dima, darling?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve lost your mind if you think you’re getting off that easily.”
Smiling would be a terribly bad idea, but looking at Paul increased the temptation to a ball-clenching degree. The Texan hitched backwards on his palms. He wasn’t making any attempt to hide his amusement.
Dima lifted an eyebrow. “It was a valiant attempt, was it not?”
She snuck her fingers through his belt loops and tugged him near. Not nearly as close as he wanted. Not even as close as they’d been in the rehearsal room. Pressed together. Sweating. Dancing.
Holy fuck,
dancing
together once again.
If he wrapped his arms around her back, he’d only need to turn her slightly before she’d be sandwiched between him and Paul. From there, anything would be an option.
She pursed her full mouth into a bud of disapproval. “Details.”
Dima knew her well enough to see the humor lurking in the depths of her eyes. “I was fourteen. You bent over in front of me wearing that gauzy pink practice skirt. I liked what I saw, but my reaction wasn’t, ah,
sizeable
.” He held up two fingers pinched together. “Not a big deal at all.”
Pure devilishness took over his mind, to go with his gathering good humor. This was…easy. Nice. Having the three of them all together worked in some way that soothed his soul—a quiet playfulness he hadn’t enjoyed since well before Lizzie’s injury. Laughing with her at Devant had been a start. This was sexier, more effervescent and all the more tempting.
He leaned forward until his lips brushed the soft shell of her ear. Paul studied them avidly. Dima dropped his voice to an imitation of a whisper. Really, he didn’t want anyone to miss a word. “Not now, though. Now it’s most certainly a big deal.”
More red flushed across her cheeks. This round was all blushing. No huffing mock-anger. Just arousal. She burned hot beneath the fingertip he traced along her skin.
He couldn’t resist the impulse to push even further. “As you well know, little one.”
He glanced toward Paul. The man leaned forward, smiling, with his chin down. This one twanged with unmistakably filthy intent. He looped his fingers around Lizzie’s wrist and tugged her between his knees. “Is that right?”
She bit her bottom lip and looked up at Dima from under her lashes in a move he knew well. She was about to tease him.
He didn’t mind in the least. Not that night. Not like when she’d been manic in her attempts to attract his attention after her injury. Silly little one. She didn’t need to try so hard.
She nestled back against Paul’s chest. “Dima’s prick and I became…reacquainted, shall we say? Last night.”
Paul’s blue eyes burned bright. Although his salacious smile widened, he tightened his hands on Lizzie’s shoulders. White, tense tendons on the darkly tanned hands gave him away. “And? Is it big?”
Though Dima usually planned every move, sometimes unmistakable opportunities popped up. Irresistible, even. He stepped closer to Lizzie. His hips tucked against hers. He wanted her to feel the hefty weight of the cock in question. This had nothing to do with choreography. Only need.
Only sex?
Holy mother, he wished he knew.
On his way to hold her waist, he brushed Paul’s denim-covered thighs with his knuckles. He kissed Lizzie first. Her lips opened under his. She tasted unbearably sweet. Yet the touch was swift. He pulled back, only to lean past her and graze his mouth over Paul’s smile.
Kissing him was much like kissing summer. Dima could feel Paul’s breath falter, feel Lizzie subtly jump between them. Paul’s lips loosened before he kissed back. That was everything. A little firmer, a little more insistent. So much curiosity.
The contrast between their mouths was delectable. Lizzie’s softness. Paul’s strength.
“Big? Lizzie seemed to think so. You’re welcome to find out for yourself.”
Chapter Nine
Lizzie held her breath and looked up. Dima’s gaze remained fixed on Paul, whose face she couldn’t see. Caught, fearing any move would send them both running, she could only wait. The silent challenge arcing between the two men would determine the shape of the evening.
Paul’s hands rested lightly on her shoulders, while Dima’s hugged beneath her breasts. God, that was intimate. Her heart was racing, pounding so hard. Either one of them would be able to guess how much she wanted this—if they weren’t too lost in their own swirling lust.
Leaning nearer, Paul whispered against her ear, “Doesn’t dinner smell wonderful?”
She swallowed. “It does.”
“Then let’s eat.”
Dima nodded and backed away, returning to the stove. The sliver of disappointment that wedged between her ribs was nearly painful. She managed, however, just how she managed to step away from Paul and get dishes from a cabinet.
He hopped down from the counter, although it wasn’t much of a hop for his long legs. Her skin prickled as he came up behind her again. “Don’t look so crestfallen. I’m hungry.” His breath was hot against the side of her neck. He slid a hand down her back and cupped one ass cheek. “And I’m going to need a lot of fuel to keep up with you two.”
Lizzie glanced at the stove, where Dima ladled his fabulous rosemary tomato sauce into a soup tureen. He smiled, as if to a private joke. She wanted to tell both of them to quit pissing around, but Jesus, if that wasn’t part of the fun.
“Go sit,” she said. “I’ll get us a drink. Your choice: tea, soda, champagne or vodka.”
“He brought wine too,” Dima added.
“Forget the wine.” Paul licked his lower lip in the way that had tipped her well past gone at the club. “Champagne instead. To celebrate.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
He strolled back to the dining room as if nothing had happened. As if nothing would happen.
“Lizzie?”
She frowned slightly. Funny how she never realized how rarely Dima used her name. She was always his “little one”. She turned to find him regarding her with something akin to…sympathy. “What?”
“Relax.”
“Oh, right. Sure.”
She went to the fridge and grabbed their only remaining bottle of
Sovetskoye Shampanskoye
. The most recent they’d opened was after their first and, to date, only television appearance, as guest professionals on a reality dance show. Dima had been so thrilled that night, as if it were the culmination of one of his grand goddamn schemes. It probably had been. Christ if she could tell—
really tell
—what he was thinking. Hard to know when he kept so much locked away. From her. Still. After so many years. Sometimes the frustration was unbearable.
So, yeah. Unspoken television goal accomplished.
Lizzie had blown her knee the following week.
Bottle grasped by the neck, she met Dima where he arranged potatoes and chicken breasts on a serving platter. “Relax,” she said tightly. “Because you’re not tied up in knots.”
“I am.”
“I knew it. This calm thing is an act.”
“You’d rather I push? Scare him off?”
He faced her head-on. He’d ditched his usual Russian stoicism for a surprisingly telling expression. A frown creased between brows a shade darker than his honey-brown hair. The full beauty of his lower lip was compressed into a tight line. He was a man working hard to rein in his impulses, all for the sake of the bigger picture. She often resented his control, just as she wondered how successful she would’ve been without it.
“Here’s the truth of it, little one,” he said, his voice private and filled with a new, unexpected depth of emotion. “You will be with Paul tonight, one way or the other. With or without me. Tell me, which of us has more to lose if he can’t go through with this?”
That was the other thing she resented about his control. He wound up making her feel like an impetuous kid.
“You do.”
“So you can help me take it slow, yes? He’ll want to play with me or not.” He shrugged. “So let’s eat. And see what happens.”
She sighed. “You never just ‘see what happens’.”
“I did at rehearsal,” he said quietly.
He kissed her forehead, as if nothing at all had changed between them. As if they hadn’t exploded in a rush of passion so intense that her dreams had been filled with images, sounds and a restless desire for more. She still felt his body pressed against hers. Sex or dancing—it didn’t matter. Moving with him was her definition of rhythm.