He hefted the serving platter. “Just be the undeniable tease you always are.”
“And you?”
“You’re the one who said I can be persuasive.”
She stood in the kitchen holding the champagne, wondering how fucked up it might look from the outside. She and her long-time dance partner were sharing responsibility for seducing a hot Texas bartender. Paul may as well be another of their many shared goals. In more ways than she wanted to admit, they needed an experience like this. They needed
him
. A genial, laid-back man they could share—the shared purpose of seduction, of all things, when all they’d managed since her injury was worrying and sniping and skirting so many new issues.
Five minutes later, with Lizzie’s blood as fizzy as the bubbles in her drink, they settled down to dinner.
“Damn, this is good,” Paul said as he tucked into the chicken. “My sister and I can’t cook for shit.”
“What does she do?” Lizzie asked.
“She’s a graphic designer, does a lot of work for publishing companies on book covers and the like. She moved up here about, what, five years ago? I followed last year after my divorce.” He shrugged—that same male version of fake casual Dima had down pat. “Needed a change.”
“Change can be good,” Dima said quietly.
Lizzie shot him a
not now
look, which Paul seemed to miss. He didn’t need their bickering sessions, not when she wanted entirely more carnal forms of communication.
“Hey, this ain’t bad.” Paul set his glass down and eyed the bottle. “What is it?”
Dima poured another round, but not for himself. “
Sovetskoye Shampanskoye
.”
Paul grinned. “Say it again.”
After complying, Dima’s smile was slow and full of calm ego. His knee pressed against Lizzie’s bare thigh. “Soviet champagne,” he translated.
“It’s nearly drinkable,” she said.
Dima made a face. “Don’t be mean. It’s gorgeous stuff.”
“It’s like carbonated saltwater, but I’ll admit I’ve acquired a liking for it. Our coach imported a case from Russia when Dima turned twenty-one. Said it was the taste of victory.”
Her grin faltered as she realized what that could imply. That their dinner together was victory. That Paul was the prize. Dima rolled his eyes, as if seeking patience and strength from a higher power.
Paul only smiled. His hand found her other knee beneath the table. These two were going to pick her brain apart and flail her with her own desires.
“So how’d you two get to be dancers?” he asked.
Lizzie took a sip. “Oh, the usual.” It was lame, but it was also the best she could do. She was pinned between two strong men, each a study in temptation. Their attention was tentative when appraising each other, but it was wickedly intense when aimed at her. What woman wouldn’t be flustered by such a situation?
“I’m a construction worker from Texas. I have no idea what usual would mean.”
Dima seemed to sense her inability to form coherent sentences because he answered on her behalf—when he
never
answered questions. That was her job. Speaking for them as a pair. Part of it had started because of his teenage struggle to learn English. The other was, well, Lizzie liked it. Dima didn’t. They’d always dovetailed. Since lying on the living room floor in a similarly interlocking sexual position, and since dancing together,
finally
, they could again.
“My parents were both professional ballet dancers,” Dima said. “Like Lizzie’s were. I was eight when the Soviet Union collapsed. The arts community collapsed too. We left five years later, came to New York. When my parents passed their prime, they didn’t adjust well to so much change at once. So it was my turn. I’d already been dancing in Moscow, but it became an obsession once we settled here. They signed me up for more hours in lessons than I spent in school.”
Lizzie nearly gaped. Dima didn’t simply…open up like that. She couldn’t help but give his thigh a little squeeze. A little reassurance. He ducked his head and shrugged.
Men. Shrugging. It was an incurable disease.
“Yeah,” Paul said. “But don’t forget, I’ve seen you move. You’re no ballet dancer.”
He flashed a curt grin. “Couldn’t help it. I never had the patience for the classical styles. Needed more passion.”
Another switch. From openness to outright innuendo. Lizzie found it so difficult to keep up that she nearly choked on a potato. She swallowed quickly, gulping another taste of champagne. “God, you are such a flirt tonight.”
“As if it was any different for you,” he said. “What did your mother claim about your hips?”
“That they’d been possessed by the devil.”
Paul chuckled. “I can attest to that.”
The mood around the table had taken a sexier turn, but also a more playful one. She could breathe again—at least until Paul’s pinkie finger brushed the satin of her panties.
She shivered. “So after five years of ballet that drove us all crazy, they enrolled me in Latin ballroom classes instead.”
“Because the pro dance community’s pretty tight, our parents knew each other,” Dima finished. “Ta-da. Doomed to a decade of victories.”
Paul looked at them both in turn before settling against the back of his chair, hands folded over his stomach. Lizzie didn’t know whether his expression was because he was amused by them or with them.
At least his plate was practically licked clean. “That was…fantastic. Thanks.”
“No problem,” Dima said with a dismissive wave. He stood to clear away the dishes. “There’s vodka in the cabinet if you’d like some. None for me though, thanks.”
His return to the kitchen meant Lizzie was bereft of both men’s touches. The evening was perched on a make-or-break ledge. Either it was going to explode in the best possible way, or Paul would tip his cowboy hat and head home.
He didn’t venture farther than the liquor cabinet. Lizzie brought orange juice and ice to make screwdrivers, joining him there. He smelled spicy, utterly delicious. She backed against the wall, watching as he poured the drinks, knowing full well Dima’s queen-size bed waited only a few feet down the hall.
What would Paul do if she just…led him there?
Except having him was not the same. She’d jumped him at the club with only herself in mind—or out of her mind, which was entirely possible. To accept a repeat performance would be selfish, done at Dima’s expense. She’d hurt him enough lately, with her refusal to see him dance at Devant. She couldn’t do that to him again.
“Why doesn’t he want a drink?” Paul asked.
“His parents. Like he said, they didn’t handle retirement well.” She left it at that, hoping Paul would take the hint. His parents’ slide toward the worst Russian stereotypes had never sat well with Dima. At all. “So he’ll have his disgusting Kusmi tea instead. Don’t feel you’re missing out, believe me.”
Paul nodded and didn’t press. Damn, she plain ol’
liked
him. He was adorable, gorgeous, polite. Not much more a girl could ask for. But there she was, waiting for more.
She clinked glasses when he raised his for a toast. The sharp citrus was a refreshing end to the meal. “You never did tell me what we’re celebrating.”
After taking a drink, Paul looked her over. Slowly. From her feet on up to her eyes. “Well, first I thought it was because I’d gotten lucky last night. Really lucky.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. This hot girl practically jumped me when I was at work.”
Lizzie forced her grin into hiding. He wanted to flirt, all stern-faced, and she definitely wanted to join in. His pure and simple safety was part of why she’d latched on to him. Playing along was the least she could offer him in return. “She must have been a tramp.”
“I don’t think I much cared, to be honest.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “Such high standards.”
Paul shrugged and set both of their glasses on the liquor cabinet. He pushed into her space. Hands on her hips. Pelvis angled just right, although the height difference of nearly a foot might take hardcore against-the-wall action off the menu.
“You wouldn’t think it, from the way I behaved,” he said, his lips against her temple. “But generally I’m a pretty levelheaded guy.”
“You seem that way.”
“The thing is? I’ve had a shitty two years. Divorce doesn’t happen all of a sudden. It builds up and blows up.” His mouth tightened briefly, before he exhaled his obvious tension. “I don’t want a damn thing other than a good time.”
“For the best, I’d guess. I can’t imagine a bar fuck lasting too long.”
“Exactly.” He wrapped his arms around her low back, bowing her in a deep embrace. “Then…I met her dance partner. I got an odd vibe off the two of them.”
Lizzie looked up, meeting his gaze. A sharp, hot fire lurked in his blue eyes, making that cool color burn. She tried to speak. Tried to swallow. Nothing happened. There was no denying that she and Dima were linked. Maybe that’s why Paul hadn’t pressed for her attention alone, and why he’d accepted an obviously joint invitation to dinner. He felt it too.
Paul kissed her gently, lip to lip. “See, I got the impression that her partner was as hot for me as she was. Funny, huh?”
“He’s a dancer,” she said with a grin. “You never can tell.”
“Probably true, but the strangest thing about the situation is… Well.” He smiled against her mouth. “I’m hot for him too.”
“Jesus.”
Lizzie shuddered. On tiptoes, she wrapped her forearms around his neck, pressing hard against his chest as they kissed. Tongues surged toward one another, tinged with orange juice and the sharp bite of vodka. Her breathing went from awkward to painful to ecstatic as she dragged ragged gulps of air into her chest.
Paul eased her back against the wall, kissing down her throat. His hands had slid high to cup the undersides of her breasts. She leaned into his touch with a groan. Damn, they were so close. So close to what she’d never believed possible.
“I’ve never been with a man before, Lizzie,” he whispered.
“I’m not too surprised.”
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s not something… Damn. I’ve always been curious. And that was a helluva lot harder to admit than I would’ve expected.”
“Would it help to know you’re safe here? No judgment. Total discretion.”
“It does actually.” A little shake of his head. His beautifully rugged features were dazed. “How crazy is that?”
“Not sure if we’re in any position to define crazy, but I like that you believe me.” She rubbed her inner wrist against his prickly jaw. “Will you tell me one thing, though? If you’ve always been curious, why now?”
“Dima’s special.”
She almost laughed at his quick, matter-of-fact assessment, yet no matter how unfamiliar that thought, it was true. Dmitri Turgenev was uniquely passionate. Perhaps that’s what made him so frustrating. She found herself wanting more from the man she admired as an artist, as a friend.
As a lover?
She firmed up her wobbling smile and forced a shrug. “I think he is.”
“And the two of you together? Damn.”
A nervous, happy giggle tickled in her throat. “Thanks.”
“So I’m gonna need your help, okay? His too. Sure I’m new to this, but I’m not naïve. I want…” He grinned again. So goddamn infectious. “I want this to be a night worth celebrating.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t need to worry about that.” She rubbed her nose against his and kissed him again. Already she knew the shape of his lips, the firmness, the strength behind them. Two men. God, what they could do to one another if they let it all loose. “There’s something I learned a long time ago about working with Dima. You want to know?”
“Sure.”
“Let him lead.”
“Is that right?”
Lizzie threw her head back on a laugh, catching Dima’s eye where he stood watching from the kitchen doorway. “Tell him.”
Dima tossed aside his dishtowel. She’d seen him prowl across the stage, smoldering, always as required by the dance. His desire at that moment was genuine and so powerful that it raised the hairs on her nape.
He stood directly behind Paul, hands flat on the cowboy’s ribs.
Lizzie watched—fascinated and so fucking turned on—as Paul’s eyes rolled closed on a sigh. He was taller than Dima by a good four inches, but at that moment, he was theirs.
Theirs to share.
“I lead,” Dima said, his voice thick. “The question becomes, are you willing to follow?”
Chapter Ten
Catching Paul between his hands was like catching hold of a thundercloud. Both highly charged and fleeting. If Dima grabbed too hard, the winds would blow him away. Heat seeped through Paul’s shirt. The lean expanse of his chest shuddered under uneasy breaths. His ribs were covered with sinewy lengths of muscle. Dima tucked his fingertips along the bottom edge of Paul’s pecs, taunting.
Promising.
Walking out of the kitchen to see Lizzie and Paul in an embrace had been exhilarating. An immediate rush of attraction had rocked through Dima’s body. They were the perfect picture of everything he desired, without realizing the depth of that want. A curiosity to be sated. Soft and hard, both beautiful in their own ways.