Paul looked so calm. Steady. Like he knew the way. “Ask her those questions. At least you’ll know for sure.”
Dima was shaking, but the possibilities blazed in his mind and in his heart. To know for sure. To know if he could trust her with all of him. What a relief that would be.
He caressed the back of Paul’s neck. “You’ve been a very good friend. Both to me and to Lizzie.”
“Damn right,” the other man drawled. “You get all this worked out, ya hear? I expect at least a round of drinks out of it.”
Dima couldn’t help but grin. “I must say the idea of you slightly drunk has definite draw.”
“You trying to butter me up and get in my pants? Because I’m telling you, there’s actually a better chance of that if I’m sober.”
His smile dried up. “I don’t think… That is, until we get all this sorted completely…”
Paul reached up to catch Dima’s shoulder in one work-roughened hand. “It was a thing and it’s done. I had a great time. I won’t ever forget you two.”
“Like I said. A great friend.”
Dima leaned down, claiming Paul’s mouth. They exchanged so much from the simple meeting of lips. He framed Paul’s head. Bristly buzz-cut hair brushed his palms in a slow-gathering tingle. Possibilities in one direction cut short, but at the same time he couldn’t help the building excitement. Their kiss charged, with Dima’s tongue sweeping into Paul’s mouth. A happy end for a happy run.
They pulled away at the same time. “Yeah,” Paul said on a smile. “Good stuff.”
“Now out you go. I have a show to ready for.”
Paul pushed up out of the chair and snugged his cowboy hat low across his brow. “You better kill ’em dead for your last show.”
“I don’t know. It might not be the last.”
“Yeah?” Something hopeful lit Paul’s bright eyes.
Dima still kept it simple. It was Lizzie he needed to open up to. No one else. “Yeah.”
They agreed to meet after the performance. Dima paused after he’d shut the door.
An eddying swirl of thoughts occupied his head. “Maybe…I have a life to ready for,” he said to the empty room.
Because if Lizzie wasn’t worth fighting for, he literally had nothing left.
He quickly ran through the rest of his prep. The stretches, his costume. When the time ticked down, he was right on his mark, at stage right of a dark theater. Fabian preceded him, microphone in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, rogues and bitches, here is our fabulous Dima Turgenev,” Fabian cooed. The MC gave his customary spiel, but this time with a change. He’d not mentioned Jeanne.
Dima had only a half second to notice that before the music swelled. The dark on stage grew thicker. He latched down his emotions. He threw his shoulders back and posed his hands to the sides. The dance. There was nothing but the dance.
Then he’d be free to find Lizzie.
When an isolating spotlight snapped white, the blonde beneath it was decidedly not Jeanne. Seeing her had never made his blood charge or his stomach flip up toward his lungs.
This woman, however… Her arms writhed overhead, wrists together. Her face tucked to one side as she looked at him sidelong. Bouncy golden hair. Curves he’d worship for the rest of his life. A lushly pouting mouth with a tiny smirk at the edges.
His Lizzie.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lizzie smiled. She smiled as if every other expression had been practice. She would dance as if every other competition had been a warm up for the rest of her life.
The lights were too intense to see Dima’s eyes. God, she needed something there. In her heart of hearts, she wanted it to be happiness, relief, surprise. Anything to say that her small little plan—such an insignificant thing in the scheme of days they’d shared—would mean a future together.
The samba. Her favorite dance. Nothing outside of receiving really talented oral sex made her feel more like a woman. Just like that, she was back to thoughts of him. Back to the magnetism he could wield over her, strong as a tide, timeless as rhythm. Feeling pent-up and edgy, she teased the audience with a flirtatious ass wiggle. The opening permitted a few bars of improv, which had not been her thing about two weeks previous.
Until Club Devant, it hadn’t been Dima’s thing either.
He strutted to center stage and stood with his chest thrust back, his hips twisted toward the audience, as she prowled the black lacquer floor. The close hold she’d argued about with Remy was a blessing. It meant holding Dima, seeing him. Finally looking into his eyes and knowing whether her gambit would pay off.
His eyebrow quirked, nearly in time with the beat. “You’re not Jeanne.”
She pulled his white dress shirt out of his waistband. The buttons flew open with a single yank. Applause like a collapsing stone wall crashed around them. “And you’re wearing too much.”
“Lizzie…”
They’d already missed the start of Remy’s planned choreo, but this was important. Slinking down Dima’s bare chest seemed to entertain the hooting crowd.
Down she went, shimmying until her knees brushed the stage, then up just as provocatively. The beat was doing wicked things to her hips. Wickedly good things. She spread her fingers wide and made it her mission to touch every ab and rib and gorgeously stacked lat as she climbed.
A hard shudder shook his shoulders. He tipped his face to the ceiling, closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. Lizzie licked the hollow at the base of his throat, which incited Club Devant to near-riot levels of energy. It fed her courage and her muscles.
She nuzzled beneath his ear. He smelled of Paul’s cologne, which made her smile against his hot skin. So many distractions. The noise. The lights. The overwhelming urge to move and just get lost in the music. She’d done that as often as she’d drawn breath.
This time, she had something to say.
“I’m not going anywhere and neither are you. This is forever, Dima mine.” She pulled back into a slow body wave and flipped her hair. “Now let’s give these people a show.”
The man she loved—because oh, Christ, she loved him—had assumed the expression of a warrior. A hunter. He was after her.
They’d missed sixteen bars of choreography, but with one four-count of samba basic, they were back to it. Just like that. As if the tension and heartache simply dissolved into molecules of sweat. He pulled her groin-to-ass into four body rolls that circled the stage. Above her, alongside her, and as the foundation that kept her solid and safe, he was her Dima. Her partner and her lover.
They
danced
like lovers. Although he maintained the same ridiculously upright, graceful frame, Dima’s hands…
owned
—owned her shoulders, her arms, her waist, until he twined their grips. He brought their torsos together. Breast molded to pecs. Belly pressed against belly. Never in competition had he been so bold. The incredulous expression he wore said he recognized as much, as if outside of himself, although that didn’t stop the resurgence of his hunter’s intensity. He grabbed with whole hands, his need sinking into her flesh as deeply as his taut, greedy fingertips.
Out of nowhere, he smiled. Bright. Beautiful. So near to bashful. The slight divot in his chin accentuated the lush fullness of his lower lip. Light cast shadows across his erect nipples. Muscles stood out in the sort of heavy relief that made artists grab the nearest paper and charcoal.
They didn’t have Dima, his body and his heat. They weren’t being blessed by his smile.
Lizzie laughed, threw back her head.
Game on.
Everything flared to life. Kicks sharper. Hips faster. Turns more precise. The lift they executed was textbook perfect, all sweet momentum and easy balance. The right give and take—and a cheeky pinch on her ass. Lizzie grinned like a maniac while giving her tits a quick shimmy. From that high vantage, atop Dima’s shoulders, she caught a glimpse of a tall Texan wearing a suit and cowboy hat. Paul leaned against the bar, a customer tonight rather than an employee. She blew him a kiss.
Hands locked with Lizzie’s, Dima brought her out of the lift with a dramatic death drop. She came to a stop with her nose mere inches from the dance floor, but they never got it wrong. She could’ve had an arrow tattooed on her wrists pointing to the exact spot held each time. A complete waste of ink. Dima had her.
Up. In his arms. Close hold, bodies practically fused. His heartbeat would feel like hers, like the rhythm of that dance. Eyes the color of midnight shadows glowed with triumph. Two synchronized body waves later, more applause hurtled out from the tables. The rest of the club became a blur of red and gold to match their costumes. She and Dima were exotic creatures camouflaged for such an environment.
She belonged here.
It was bone-deep knowledge.
The samba ended, followed immediately by the cha-cha. Every move became easier, more tuned to his. How could she have believed that competition dancing was all they had in them? Too many rules. Barriers. Expectations. She breathed this freedom deep into her lungs and shook it out with every kick and step and spin.
This was simply dancing with Dima, and it was
everything
. She put her soul into their union, drinking up his smile when it flashed. That they had discovered the cheeky playfulness required of the cha-cha was a minor miracle.
He twirled her into a stage curtsy with the finishing flourish of music. The inside of her knee reminded her that she wasn’t perfect anymore, but that single misstep had allowed her to find an otherwise unknown spotlight. She knew what she needed for the future to be solid and good. He bowed right alongside her.
They crossed to stage left and grabbed the water bottles Fabian extended. “Friggin’ fantastic,” he said. “Damn.”
Dima eyed Lizzie as his throat worked the quick swallows. Only a few. He had it down to a science, how much he could drink without getting a stitch in his side. Everything remained…him. Methodical and thoughtful. He screwed the cap back on the water bottle. Still watching her.
“Say something.” She was breathless, but not entirely because of the dance. Physical therapy had prepared her, and working with Remy had reminded her body what it needed to do. No, this was entirely different, like a defendant waiting for a judge’s sentence. “Dima, please.”
He backed her against the wall. Suddenly. No warning. Hands at her hips, mouth on hers. She wrapped her arms around his slick torso. Back and clavicles. Tight waist and firm ass. He had the same idea, rucking her skimpy spangled costume up her thighs.
Oh hell no.
Not again. She found the presence of mind—barely—to shove against his chest. When that didn’t work, she bit his lower lip. His growl of approval wet her panties in a hot rush. Good God, this was nuts.
“Performance,” she said with a grin. “That applause? It’s for us.”
“They don’t know the half of it.”
Fabian tapped Lizzie on the arm. “Bachata. Then you two can get back to whatever this particular move is. Wish I had a big Russian stud to teach me.”
“Find your own. I’m still working on this one.”
Dima visibly forced calm into his lean body. His back bowed on a long exhale. Lizzie turned toward the stage, while he stood behind her and crossed his sleek, sweaty bare arms around her stomach.
“How’s your knee? You up for round three?”
Hearing his concern, knowing how much guilt he took on himself even still, twisted in her gut. Some things would still take time to make right. Mostly by doing. “Yup. Followed by round four as soon as we get off stage.”
He groaned against her temple. “Lizzie, I mean it. You sure?”
“Trust, Dima,” she said in Russian. She twined their fingers together, and not-so-innocently pressed her ass back against his pelvis. “Besides, do you want this song to forever be the one where you saw me grind up on Remy?”
“Fuck no,” he growled.
“Good. Because you don’t have to break in this time. I’m yours.”
When the lights went up, they were back where they belonged.
Dima spun her on the first count. His thick thigh wedged between hers as he bent her back into a long, sensual arc. He trailed his lips down between her breasts and danced a four-count with his body bowed over hers. All the while their legs kept time, their hips hitting stroke after stroke. It was sex standing up. Pure and simple. Since everything she and Dima had shared with Paul, and with the passionate undercurrents they’d only just started to explore, they found a hardcore groove.
The lights made Lizzie feel as if they were being watched—not while dancing, but while devouring one another in Dima’s big bed. A need to be the center of attention had probably dragged her to the stage in the first place. It was a drug. She shared that high with Dima as he led and she followed.
She was ridiculously out of breath by the time the music concluded. Applause again turned Club Devant into a glittering madhouse. Everyone was on their feet, even Declan, who offered his praise by way of a slow clap and a marveled expression. Paul shook his head, equally stunned, but he followed it up with the grin that would rival the sun.
Whatever Fabian said about their departure from the stage was lost to her as Dima tugged her hand. He lifted his eyebrow in silent question. Lizzie waited until they found a dark, private corner to call him on his unspoken request.