He was coming to love the little songs he could evoke from her.
Paul shifted over Lizzie. He scooped up her swaying breasts, pinching her pink nipples between his fingers. “Goddamn, that’s good,” he growled.
“Slower.” Dima caught him by the hips, dragging out his moves. “Let me lick you more.”
Paul groaned, but he let Dima control the motion. His ass worked under Dima’s grip, sending a wicked shiver through him. His shivers worked out from his mouth and into Lizzie. She shuddered in response. Then Paul. Around and around they went, tucked so closely together it became impossible to tell where each ended.
No matter his intentions, he kept coming back to Lizzie. He sucked and nipped her everywhere. He opened his lips over her clit until he could rock his teeth over the swollen nub. Soft at first, before grinding harder when she moaned. He hunted that sound over and over, taking breaks to lick down the thick length of Paul’s shaft.
He took a breath, just watching the lovers working together, sweating and thrusting. He traced a fingertip down the cleft of Paul’s ass. The other man only groaned and fucked into Lizzie a little harder.
Dima kept exploring. He teased between Paul’s taut globes, circling the tight bud of his anus. The man twitched in a flinching kind of move. So Dima moved on. He wanted the leeway to play as he liked. Wet and slick and oh-so-goddamned hot. He circled two fingers around Paul’s cock, holding tight, feeling the slow slam into Lizzie’s soaking cunt. He tucked a single blunt finger between the bottom of her clit and Paul’s dick.
Fascinating. Beautiful. Mesmerizing.
He’d maintained a hard-on from hell. Nibbling on Lizzie’s lips made him throb. Too damn close to coming. He put one hand on his cock, ringing the base and pushing into his pelvis. Holding back the swelling wave.
No way in fuck would he come before Lizzie did.
She folded one arm across the back of the couch, resting her forehead on her wrist. She smoothed over Paul’s hands and scraped her nail across her own nipple. Her fingers dove into Dima’s hair, stroking. Petting. Her breathing came faster and harder.
“Please,” she moaned.
He removed his mouth but left his fingers dabbling in their connection. Interrupting and adding at the same time. “Please what, little one?”
Her hips writhed with more strength. She gave a little sigh that shifted down into a near moan. “I need to come. Soon. Please.”
Paul groaned at her blunt words. “Shit. Me too.”
Dima couldn’t help his smile. He licked them one more time for good measure. Tapped his tongue over Lizzie’s hot clit. She gripped the base of Dima’s neck. “You both sound disappointed.”
“Because it’s so damned good.” Paul stroked a hand down Lizzie’s torso, fingers splayed as if reaching for as much lustrous skin as he could. When he grazed Dima’s face, he didn’t falter, but rather smoothed over the back of Dima’s head. His fingers twined with Lizzie’s there.
Dima slid to the side, out from under them both. Paul had plastered himself over Lizzie’s back, his mouth nestled against her temple. He wrapped one arm around the front of her shoulders, holding her breast.
In unison they turned their heads to watch him. Identical sleepy-eyed lust darkened their gazes. Dima roughly caressed the muscle-bound span of Paul’s upper back. The man’s pulsing moves made small tendons and ligaments twitch as far up as his lean shoulders.
It might be pushing the other man too far, but Dima couldn’t help himself. He stepped up behind him, carefully adjusting his cock to lay in the crack of Paul’s strong ass. Sweat dampened his skin and made thrusting easy. The pressure wasn’t enough to come, but sweet Virgin Mary did it go right to Dima’s brain, making him lightheaded in the best possible way.
So much of it was the strength in Paul’s body. The rock-hard length of his back. He moved like a young god, everything pure and bright.
Sweat dampened the edges of Lizzie’s hair as she tossed it over her shoulder. She hooked one hand backward, sliding over Paul’s hip and barely grazing Dima. “Holy hell, that’s dirty,” she moaned.
Paul’s shoulders twisted on a shudder. He bowed until his forehead rested on Lizzie’s nape. Beyond his thrusts into her cunt, he didn’t draw away from Dima’s pressure. There’d be an opportunity there. He’d only have to take the right steps.
Leaning one knee on the couch, he kissed them both, one at a time. Wrapped his hand around the back of Paul’s neck and took. Sank his fingers through Lizzie’s sweat-dampened hair and swept his lips over hers.
Lizzie lifted a hand and tucked it along his jaw. Her eyes drifted shut. Their kiss turned sweet, despite the fact that she was currently being fucked by another man.
Or maybe because of it.
They’d come to such a strange place. Across four months, no matter his mistakes or his plans, Dima had been unable to pull them forward. They had been stuck in a painful limbo. Until their sunshine bartender stepped in. Maybe to help pull them free.
Dima retreated a pace, letting them work together. He fucked into his own hand. “Harder,” he ordered. “Harder, Paul. Until she comes.”
Lizzie moaned again, louder. Paul screwed into her, his hips twisting. “And me?” he asked. His voice was deep, so rough through and through.
Dima tucked fingertips under the bottom of the man’s ass, where hair lightly dusted the tops of his thighs. By contrast, Lizzie’s thighs were softer and smoother than cream.
“What about you?” He knew, of course, but he liked the talking. Liked the openness. At any other moment, such openness became too difficult. In the middle of sex, all bets were off. He could say anything he liked.
“I’m going to come soon,” Paul groaned.
Dima tucked his smile down, not letting it escape. He liked finding a limit. Even in such a moment, Paul wouldn’t beg. “You too. Come. Let her feel how she affects you.”
Locking one arm low around Lizzie’s hips, Paul gripped the back of the couch. She squeaked a near scream as he used the leverage to slam into her. The lovely, lithe bands of her muscled arms braced her. Her head rocked back, resting against Paul’s shoulder—but it was Dima she watched.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she tracked him. He shifted to the side to watch them both. The bunch of Paul’s ass as he thrust. The way Lizzie’s breasts bounced and her flat stomach clenched and released. Her mouth glistened.
Dima stroked his cock harder, keeping time with them. With his other hand he tugged on his balls. Sensation rocked him up on his heels, but he didn’t give up. Barely blinked. The two of them, together. More than hot. Sexier. Filthier in the best sort of way. The hollows of Paul’s thighs into his ass were matched only by the flat length of Lizzie’s waist. The beautiful moving canvas of Paul’s ass was a work of art.
Her eyes went wide. She turned her head to fix on Dima. “I’m coming. Christ, I’m gonna come so hard.
Dima.
”
He grinned. Clenched harder. Stroked faster. “Good. Go with it.”
She bit her bottom lip. Her voice spiraled into a soft, choked scream that arrowed all the way down to Dima’s guts. Just that quick, he blew over with hot jerks of pleasure. Shivering sensation rammed down his spine, took over his brain in a razor-sharp haze. His come streaked across them both—Lizzie’s hips and Paul’s ass.
That was apparently enough for Paul. He buried his face against Lizzie’s hair and drove his cock into her one last time, coming on a long groan.
The three of them collapsed in a sweaty heap on the couch. With one hand still encircling his shrinking cock and his other fingers tucked into the damp hollow behind Lizzie’s knee, Dima started to feel strange.
After he licked and sucked his partner, after he came all over a near-stranger’s ass…
then
he started to feel off.
He could almost laugh at himself, if he weren’t being attacked by a renewed glut of gut-sick worry.
As if he’d lost his plans entirely.
Which was why he kept his plans and his problems to himself. The sick, wandering worry that came with the lack of a goal wasn’t something he’d inflict on anyone else, much less his girl. How could he share anything with her when he trusted his judgment so little?
Lizzie would likely want to snuggle with Paul. Of course she would. No matter the strange turn in their relationship, an old partnership wasn’t the same as initiating a new relationship with another man.
Dima shoved the worries down. Refusing to acknowledge fears denied them power. He offered a hint of a smile and brushed a soft kiss over Lizzie’s mouth, then Paul’s. They both blinked up at him as he pushed off the couch.
“Perfect. Little one, I hope you sleep well.” He pressed another kiss to her forehead because he never could sleep right without the small ritual. “Paul, Lizzie can show you what you need.”
The other man’s smile was nearly bright enough to distract Dima from the sudden darkness that sprang up in Lizzie’s eyes, or his disappointment when she didn’t say anything at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Lizzie stared up to where dawn had begun to chase the shadows on the ceiling.
Back to normal?
Normal with benefits?
Absolutely no telling.
She could’ve stayed entwined with Paul, because damn was he a solid hunk of cuddle. Discipline and long years of habit meant she was awake before the sun rose. Throughout high school, she and Dima had put in two hours of practice every day before classes started. Nothing could be more grueling than a four a.m. wake up.
Except facing Dima had every hallmark of an emotional marathon. He was bumping around the kitchen, making tea. Soon he’d start yoga. Lizzie risked a quiet
tsk
of reproach if she didn’t get her ass up and join him.
She would, just like she’d search every action, word and look for a clue as to what was going on in his head. Not that she’d find much. He’d shut down pretty damn fast after coming. He might never process the experience well enough to give her an indication of what it had meant to him.
Same as always.
She’d been wickedly disappointed after they won their first junior pairs title—especially considering how badly she’d fucked up the year previous, not trusting him. For her, that win rolled glory and redemption all in one. Dima had only smiled, looking as if he was merely enduring every congratulatory word and hug.
What kind of young man took defeat so hard but refused to show any hint of how victory felt?
The worst part—or perhaps, what kept her searching past his reserve—was that he did feel. She’d caught glimpses through the years. Weeks after that junior pairs win, she’d caught him staring at the trophy in their coach’s practice room, his hand pressed to the glass case, head bowed. Sixteen years old, he’d gathered her into an unexpected embrace and whispered, “
Spasibo
.”
Thank you.
The next day, practice as usual.
That was it. That was Dima.
And that’s why things were going off course. Initially she’d been cool with his way of doing things. His calm kept her calm. Their goals matched, so why wonder what was in his head? Practice hard, work toward innovation and unison, keep each other sane on the road. Win. His thoughts were completely unreadable, since her injury and since…whatever the hell this was. When they needed to communicate the most, she was back to realizing how little of that he managed.
She closed her eyes. Keeping each other sane had been such a part of their partnership. Sometimes travel meant airplanes, and sometimes bus rides that were, holy crap, centuries long. They’d snoozed in an airport in Dallas once, having missed their connection. Both of them against a pillar at their gate. Both of them exhausted. Shoulder to shoulder, heads listing. He’d been warm and gentle and back to that calm she’d always needed.
The memory that had stayed with her most clearly, however, was on a ride from Phoenix to Sacramento. Some minor competition, but that wasn’t the point. It was their first road trip without their parents—a novelty for both of them after so many years of being molded and, to be frank,
scrutinized
. Watched for signs of fatigue, flirtations with dancers, injury, mistakes, disinterest, cattiness, and “a smile that didn’t convince anyone.”
That last was her mother’s refrain.
The bus ride had been freedom.
When their coach had fallen asleep up near the driver, she and Dima had snuck toward the back. Not for anything sexy. Alone time. Breathing time. The competition in Phoenix had done a serious number on her feet. Bloodied and blistered. Dima had filled a water bottle from the sink in the bus’s teeny-tiny bathroom. He’d retrieved a towel, bandages, Tylenol and a tube of antibacterial salve. Seventeen. Only seventeen years old. He shouldn’t have known she was in pain. Shouldn’t have cared enough. Yet there in the last row of seats, he’d urged her to lay her head back against a wadded-up warm-up jacket while he tended her injured feet. His touch and that lukewarm water had been heavenly.
Over the years, other opportunities had come along for both of them. She hadn’t ever considered them. Why would she? He was her partner, and that was enough. That had been…simple.
Staying in bed with Paul would’ve been less complicated—a lovely morning fuck—but she pushed out from under his heavy forearm. Some things were worth it when they were complicated. If she had any chance of convincing Dima to rejoin her on tour, and to keep their partnership intact, she needed to hold on to the rituals and connections that made them special.