His hand was shaking as he reached for the doorknob of his dressing room. Sweat from the performance had dried, but a new sheen popped up on his forehead and across the back of his neck. He had an ominous feeling that whatever was behind that door was the start of…
something
.
The beginning of the end, or the end of a fresh beginning.
The flimsy particleboard door opened easily. A perfect triangle of yellow light poured from the corridor into the dressing room.
No matter what recklessness he’d believed Lizzie capable of, the truth was more extreme. He’d known it would be. That didn’t make the scene easier to process.
Lizzie straddled Paul in Dima’s chair, with her hands at the back of his head. They both froze mid-fuck.
“Well, well.”
He shut the door behind himself. His surprise made his voice more gravelly, his accent stronger. He hated that. She’d hear it and know, but maybe she wouldn’t hear the hurt underneath.
Lizzie blinked, her eyes unfocused. Her dyed-bright blonde hair was a feathery mess. A scrap of tiny black lace that used to be panties twisted around one of her four-inch heels. Paul’s jeans pooled around his thighs, showing off tanned, rock-hard legs beneath the swirl of Lizzie’s red dress.
Paul closed his hands over her back, almost protectively. “Hey, buddy, do you mind?”
She could’ve taken the man anywhere, screwed him anywhere. New York had thousands of motels and hotels. Or hell, there was always the alley behind the club.
Yet she’d brought Paul here, and she sure as hell wasn’t scrambling off the hard cowboy. In fact, under Dima’s gaze, her hips twitched. Her lips parted.
Feeling tight as piano wire, he crossed to where she sat with Paul still buried deep.
Fuck, Dima didn’t have a clue who he envied more. The sudden throb of his ready cock didn’t want to differentiate. It’d take either of them. Both. His conscious mind had dropped out somewhere along the way. Eventually he might feel terrible about all this. For now, his only thought was
finally
. Finally they weren’t stuck. They weren’t frozen in the limbo that had stolen the last half year.
Dima tugged her hair, gently but firmly. Her neck bowed in a graceful arch. He kissed her on the forehead.
“
Privet
, little one.” He locked eyes with Paul. Steady blue eyes looked back with a hint of challenge. “And hello to you too. I don’t mind. Continue fucking her in my dressing room. I’m sure she meant it that way.”
Lizzie’s soft gasp shot right through him. Just as hot as he’d imagined, even if it was another man giving her pleasure.
A decade and a half together, one way or the other, and he’d be damned if he could figure her out. At that moment, he sure as hell didn’t understand himself.
Turning away was gut-wrenching. He’d never turned his back on Lizzie when she so desperately wanted to be seen.
Only years of training forced his body to obey. He moved past them to the wardrobe in the corner.
The chair creaked behind him. Dima didn’t look. If Lizzie wanted his attention, she had it. If she wanted more than that, she’d need to ask for it. He’d be damned if he would guess anymore. They stood at the sharp blade of change, ready to slice through and cut him and Lizzie apart forever. He didn’t think he could survive that, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to last long in this nowhere land.
He snatched the first set of clothes he found, to replace the sleeveless shirt he’d worn for the second half of his performance. Inside, a roiling swarm of energy buzzed. He always came off the stage popping, especially of late when he became so tense with the effort of protecting lesser partners.
This was more than he’d ever experienced.
The chair creaked again. Dima kicked out of his trousers.
Lizzie gave a little sigh that squeaked upwards to a moan. “Mmm, Dima… You’re good to me, aren’t you?”
Paul cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t know what kind of freak show you two have going, but I’m not sticking around—”
Lizzie’s crystalline giggle overrode whatever he’d been about to say. “It’s a little difficult to lie when your dick’s inside me.” She dropped her voice to a faux whisper. “You’re even harder than you were before.”
Dima shoved a washcloth under water. Cold, of course. Running it over his skin did nothing to cool him off. His blood still slammed a fandango.
Was he really standing for this? Yes. More than that, some small part of him was loving it. The pure wickedness of the situation made his cock ache. While he always planned and strategized, Lizzie tossed wrenches with the best of ’em.
Shifting to the left brought him in line with a mirror. From there he found a perfect, unobstructed view of Lizzie riding Paul. She’d lowered her forehead to his. Her hips worked over him. Big, calloused hands curled around her hips.
Paul glanced at Dima before planting his cowboy boots wide. He fucked up into Lizzie.
Dima jerked his gaze down to the washcloth in his hand as his nerves shot higher. That nod to privacy was ridiculous. Watching didn’t mean interrupting, not when they were in his damned dressing room. He found her face in the mirror and didn’t look away.
The pair had pressed their cheeks together, staring at Dima’s back. They were stroking with tiny movements that appeared no less powerful for it.
She wrapped her forearms around Paul’s neck and crossed her wrists. “Lovely, isn’t he?”
Paul didn’t answer with words, but he grunted. His ass came up off the chair. Lizzie gasped again, this time louder.
Thank God music from the club pumped through the air, this time a jerky, techno-flavored remix of some ’80s song. Only Dima and Paul would be lucky enough to hear her sweet noises.
She licked her lips, visibly trying to put on a front—as if she weren’t having sex as she chatted. “It’s all those hours of dancing. Dima’s a stickler for practice. I thought we’d wear ruts in the floor.” The perfect line up the side of her calf dug deep as she pointed her toes and hooked her feet over Paul’s knees. For leverage apparently, because she arced back. Her breasts rose, perky and full. “It’s given him an amazing body. Those shoulders. That gorgeous back.”
Paul spread his fingers wide over Lizzie’s ass. If it weren’t for the silky red material of her dress, his fingertips would be digging into the delicate skin between her globes. “How many times?” His voice had gone deeper and huskier, edged with something harsh.
Dima swallowed past the tightness in his chest and flicked the washcloth into the sink. He raked his fingers through his hair, but even pulling didn’t alleviate the noise in his head. His greed wasn’t going anywhere. His hands. On Lizzie. Her lush body, her mouth, her smile. He’d believed he would possess all of those beautiful things eventually, if he were patient enough.
Maybe not. Yet…this was all bloody surreal.
“How many times what?” She twisted her hips in the same move she used when dancing the rumba.
Dima gritted his teeth.
“How many times have you two slept together?” Paul asked on a groan.
She laughed, but the sound was rough. “Only once. A long time ago. It wasn’t that great.”
Paul watched Dima in the mirror, his face flushed beneath his sunshine tan, but Dima was tired of being used as some sideline attraction. He bent over to push his legs into a pair of workout pants.
“That ass makes me think I should reconsider,” Lizzie said, her words a taunt. “What do you think, Paul? Should I give him another chance?”
The centers of Dima’s palms burned. He yanked the track pants over his hips and pulled on a tank top and jacket.
There was no staying away from her for long—his partner and his friend and the key to so many hopes. He stroked a hand over Lizzie’s back as he walked by. She shuddered, her head falling forward to expose the delicate bumps of her spine. Her fingertips tightened across Paul’s shoulders. The man’s darkly tanned hands climbed her sides until his thumb grazed Dima’s finger.
“Have a good time, little one. I’ll see you back at the flat.”
On a silent moan, her lips opened, still slicked with bright pink gloss. They’d gone at it so fast and dirty that her makeup was barely smudged. “Are you going to be alone?”
A devil took control of his tongue. He couldn’t pretend they were the same asexual friends they used to be. Not anymore. If Lizzie wanted his attention, he wanted hers right back.
“No. Jeanne made it more than clear that I had an open invitation.” After twining a lock of her shoulder-length hair around his finger, he passed the knuckles of his other hand over Paul’s shimmering buzz cut. “Tonight, I’m in the mood for a blonde.”
Chapter Three
The door slammed and Lizzie kissed Paul. Hard. A lot harder than what a quick-and-dirty demanded. She’d been perched on the edge of coming for minutes, holding back. Holding her breath. Normally she associated kissing with foreplay, but this was more like stress relief.
Dima’s calm sexual smolder had flipped her brain, and Paul continued to surprise her.
He released her ass to take her head between his wide hands. The calluses along his palms roughed her cheeks before he tunneled his fingers into her hair. Mouth open, he plunged deep with his tongue. Their teeth clicked but he didn’t stop—not the kissing or the relentless thrust of his hard, controlled body. He found her throat and tucked his face there. Lizzie scraped her nails up and down his back, urging without words.
Breathing hard, he asked, “Could he be listening at the door?”
Holy hell, he wasn’t done thinking about it. The surprising show Dima had staged must’ve done a number on Paul. What was she supposed to do with that? Hell, what was she supposed to do with how Dima’s body looked entirely new to her? So sexy. So taut and controlled. She’d never reacted to him that way before—purely visceral and primal and not at all some safe, steady partnership.
Her body knew what to do. Some deep, nasty part of her brain knew.
“I wouldn’t put it past him.” She inhaled as he shifted their angle. Bang. Right against her G-spot. “We share an apartment. Taking a partner back there is never entirely…private.”
“Is he gay?”
Good God, she was blowing apart.
She found Paul’s earlobe and bit down hard enough to make him grunt. “No, cowboy,” she whispered. So close. He was as frantic as she, all sweat and slick, wet sounds. “He likes both.”
Paul smacked his palms on her ass and grabbed. Lizzie just held on while he pumped her with his huge, hard tool. Her climax hit her in a slow roll, so unlike their quick fuck. She arched her neck and let it take her mind. Aching waves of pleasure burned and shook until it released in the form of a tight scream.
Let Dima hear. She hoped it ruined him for that skinny new girl he’d go tackle.
Paul echoed her satisfaction. A moan rumbled out of his solid chest and burrowed into her blood. They sat there panting. Lizzie hadn’t been so lightheaded since those weeks doped up on pain meds.
“This job isn’t enough to pay my rent,” he said with a breathless laugh. “Apparently it has other benefits.”
“I’m not a club perk, cowboy.” She climbed off him and smoothed her dress.
“So what was it? A cocktease looking for a little revenge against that guy?”
“A cocktease wouldn’t have got you off.”
He grinned. “True, that.”
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he sprawled there in the chair—knees parted, his erection going back into hiding. At the sick lurch in her stomach, Lizzie couldn’t tell if she was proud or disgusted by what she’d just done.
Dima had stood by as she fucked another man. Christ. That thought jolted her all over again. Lingering images of his lean back rippling with muscle shook her to the core.
She’d wanted him.
After fifteen years…
now
her ridiculous mind wanted him? No matter how hot Paul was, or how great her orgasm had been, or how arousing it was to watch Dima’s quiet flirtation with the sunshine cowboy, another surprising thought overwhelmed everything else. She’d wanted Dima to stake his claim. Get angry. Throw things. Yank Paul off her and hurl him out the door.
Nope. He’d played as goddamn stoic as always, even if the ridge of his erection had been obvious in his warm-up pants.
Paul stood and yanked on his jeans while she did her best to fix hair, makeup, underwear. Cooled so quickly, she half-expected him to leave without a word. Instead he shoved on his cowboy hat and caught her around the waist.
Damn, he smelled good. Clean but sweaty, musky. Satisfied male. She let him rub a hand up her torso. That idle petting eased some of her regrets, her confusion.
“Hey.” His devilish good-boy smile was too powerful to resist. “I get a feeling this was a one-time thing. On a number of levels. So I’ll just say thanks.” A tiny frown creased between his brows. “And thank him too, okay? What was his name?”
“Dmitri.”
“That’s not what you called him.”
“His Russian diminutive is Dima. It’s like Lizzie is short for Elizabeth.”
“Dima. Huh.” He nodded rather earnestly, as if storing that information. Fascinating that he was still capable of thought. Her brain was as wiggly as her thighs.