“
Spokojnoj nochi
, little one.”
Good night
, she thought in return. Dima, however, had already slipped away.
Chapter Six
Dima used a paring knife to chop and slice herbs for an omelet. That done, he rinsed the blade and proceeded to cut the fruit, but the steady thwack of blade couldn’t dim his tension. By the time Lizzie deigned to wake up, he had mounded a too-large pile of diced strawberries at the end of the cutting board.
He was still lost in his own head. In the memories. In the still-wants that plagued him.
She walked out of her bedroom, hair tousled and falling over her face. Scrubbing a palm across sleepy eyes lifted the hem of her oversized Rangers T-shirt. She was a huge hockey fan, to the point of frustration if being on tour meant missing a game. The sport had been one of their early connections, when he’d been new to the US and confounded by its many differences. Hurling English and Russian obscenities across the ice had cemented their friendship outside of the rehearsal room.
Underneath the shirt, she wore only a pair of dark red tap pants. He’d admired the differences in her body last night. Six months ago, she had been competition skinny. Women on the circuit were sticklers about their weight, while trying to maintain the muscle tone required for the grueling demands of dance. Those whose figures more resembled Lizzie’s petite, ripe curves worked even harder to stay thin.
During physical therapy, she had gained something like ten pounds of muscle. She’d been powerful beneath his hands and there, in the light of morning with that shirt lifted to a tempting height, she
looked
it. As lush as ever, but with more shapely muscles.
This glance reminded him that she’d worn pajama pants around the house since her return, practically hiding from him.
She wasn’t hiding from him anymore.
Those dark red tap pants snugged against the dip of her pussy. The same pussy he’d licked last night. She’d sucked his cock deeper than anyone ever had, man or woman.
He’d needed more, no matter that his orgasm had left him floating and dazed. No denying that. Only Lizzie’s hesitation—not wanting to compare him and Paul—had been his stop sign. His dreams had been filled with Lizzie and Paul, both of them twined together. They were inexplicable fantasies, considering how many of his desires started and ended with her. If Paul was going to be involved, he would be on Dima’s terms.
“Are you hungry?” He split the egg-white omelet in half, dumped it on two plates and set it on the counter island. The strawberries went in a small bowl with a hefty spoonful of nonfat vanilla Greek yogurt.
She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth and eyed him warily. If she was worrying he was going to make a scene, she could relax. Every movement said she wanted to keep it light.
Fine with him. For the moment. She had a tendency to bolt, one way or the other. Fast decisions. Quick impulses. If he wanted Lizzie Maynes, and holy Christ he did, he would need to take it a hell of a lot slower than laying her down for another mind-blowing 69. He’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t be forced into anything. Carrying her to bed had been one of the most difficult things he’d done in a long time, but it had been the right thing. If Dima pushed too far, she’d scramble.
Which direction would he push? Where they were headed seemed dark and murky. The last thing he wanted to do was share unformed plans—just hasty desires, really—only to have them fall through.
No, that wasn’t right. The last thing he wanted was to lose this woman.
“I could eat,” she finally said. With a couple twists and a spin, she braided gold hair out of her face. Not once did she look him in the eyes. She slid onto the barstool and picked up a fork. “I don’t think I’ve ever said, but I missed your cooking when I was gone. I got tired of the salads.”
“
Spasibo.
”
He thanked her because her praise was at least
something
in the middle of such an uncomfortable morning.
Could’ve meant anything, though. Her mom didn’t cook. Ballerinas were a whole other breed of dancer. In order to maintain her figure career after retirement, the woman pretty much only ate lettuce. She judged Lizzie rather too harshly for having any appetite. Dima only smiled as she savored the ham-and-herb omelet. He liked her appetites. All of them. Especially the ferocious way she’d outright appreciated the feel of his dick pulsing down her throat. Every moan still reverberated through his body like a caress.
Dark thoughts flooded in behind the flash of visceral memory. Had any other woman been stretched out beneath him last night, his morning would be entirely different. He’d have kissed Lizzie immediately, for one thing. None of this dancing around, and none of this wondering whether he should even give his customary greeting.
Screw it. He’d be no lesser version of himself. Having her meant keeping what he valued in their relationship.
He tilted her face up. Her forehead was cool beneath his lips, and he lingered longer than he ever had. “I didn’t say good morning.
Dobroe utro
, little one.”
Her throat worked over a swallow. The fork clattered against the side of the plate. Eyes lit by streamers of sunlight met his. For once, he couldn’t read a damn thing. Pleased, regretful, confused—she could’ve felt anything. Or everything. He could relate.
“Morning,” she whispered.
“Did you sleep well?”
He sat beside her. Keeping calm as he dished fruit onto his plate was difficult. He wanted to paint patterns on her skin with the yogurt and use his tongue to lick her clean.
She pushed a bite of egg around her plate. “Fine.”
“What are your plans for the day?”
“I’ve got a physical therapy appointment this afternoon. Nothing in the morning. Why?”
He leaned an elbow on the counter and turned to frame her within his open knees. Being so near without touching her should have been normal. Without choreography to follow, they generally maintained a friendly yet familiar distance.
Generally.
Sometimes they’d indulged in more intimate contact out of necessity. Touchstones. Competition did funny things to a brain. He couldn’t imagine how solo athletes managed. Even if Dima couldn’t reveal many of his thoughts, he’d always had that special woman beside him to share each experience—bitching about the judges and being disappointed by small crowds. That meant having the best partner in the world to share in joint triumphs. That meant feeling free to steady both their nerves by touching her lower back just before the opening four-count. And that meant morning kisses and kisses for luck.
After having tasted her, and after having accepted and returned more eager, demanding kisses, he couldn’t help but want more.
“Come to practice with me this morning.”
She turned away with a little huff of annoyance. “So I can watch you spin Jeanne around the room while I sit in the corner?” The look she shot from the corner of her eyes was as sly as anything he’d ever seen. And Russians knew sly. “What did you say to sitting in the corner while I was busy with Paul? No, thank you?”
She twirled her index finger through hair that looked like spun sugar. Fine and silken and so golden pale. He loved it, especially unbound. She’d complained endlessly at having to slick it down with five types of product for competitions and exhibitions. Silently, he’d hated it too.
“So. Moping around the flat, this is a better idea?”
She stabbed a strawberry. Her mouth bent upside down with her pout. He had the overwhelming urge to take her lower lip between his teeth. “I’m not moping.”
“I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge, little one. I hope this isn’t a sign of the future.”
Inadvertently voicing one of his deepest fears, that she really was a different woman—less certain, less optimistic—made him face his own plate of food.
“There’s no challenge in watching you practice.”
“It’s Jeanne’s bachata. Unacceptably messy. I was hoping you could show her how to sharpen it up.”
The idea visibly caught hold behind her eyes. She lit up from within. She wanted to go. Maybe she always had. The right excuse was all she needed.
“Fine,” she said, ladling put-upon affectation thick. “I’ll go if you need me to.”
“I do.”
She rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? Shit. For what? Dima couldn’t process the possibilities fast enough. They just hit him up and down his ribs.
“Oh?”
“I should’ve come see you dance weeks ago. I think…I think I hurt you by refusing. I’m sorry.” A hesitant pause. “Though I don’t regret what I did with Paul, I should’ve stayed for the whole performance.”
He blinked and breathed and faltered. Back teeth clenched, he pushed his plate aside. The topic was so damn thorny he couldn’t weave through. So he focused on the craft they’d shared for a decade and a half. “What did you think of it?”
He said it casually, but her opinion was all he’d wanted. It was nearly as important as her apology. Nearly enough to ease the strange feelings of jealousy and desire when he thought of her with Paul.
“It was different, of course.” She offered a shy smile. Lizzie could be shy? “Frankly, I didn’t know your body could do that. It was a surprise. And it was…” A furious blush wrapped around her cheekbones. He liked it. The color and the fact that his body had made an impression. Maybe she’d finally seen him as a man. “It was sexy as hell.”
“You need to come to Devant today.” His own smile felt lighter. “There’s plenty more.”
The words hung between them. Promise? Come-on? He was losing track of every innuendo. Speaking his mind wasn’t a habit he’d ever cultivated.
She broke the silence with a nod. “I’ll go get changed.”
Two hours later, Dima admired her ass as she sashayed up the back stairwell of Club Devant. The woman’s curves just wouldn’t quit—and when she was a little annoyed, she poured attitude into her twitch.
Dima managed to control his amusement and his desire before they reached the practice room. He needed to. More rode on the next few moments than he wanted to consider.
The appeal of professional competitions had faded for him about a year ago. Nothing left to sink his teeth into, and no way for him or Lizzie to grow. The permitted choreography had become stifling. Always, they’d received the same backhanded criticisms, even as they won championship after championship. Too theatrical. Too sexual. Apparently certain judges believed there was such a thing as too much connection. What else was Latin dance if it didn’t celebrate chemistry? Competition favored precision over sexuality. Such a farce.
Hanging on to that life would’ve left him a burned-out husk, one of the pathetic old men who sat on the sidelines and made eyes at the new crop of young dancers. His father had been such a man at every single one of Dima’s junior competitions. If evolving would keep him from falling into a bottle of vodka, Dima wanted that opportunity.
He needed to make her see that Club Devant was just such an opportunity. That relatively small stage provided enough of an audience to give both of them the performance rush they craved. But first, even before that hurdle, he had to get her dancing again. Practice was the only place to start.
Remy Lomand sprawled in the middle of the hardwood floor, legs spread wide as he stretched. At night and for performances, he spiked his wide, dark Mohawk, but the bright fluorescents of the rehearsal room shone off an unruly mess. The guy looked like he’d rolled out of bed before grabbing the nearest pair of loose-fitting jeans. Not unappealing in the least.
However, the man was trouble. Brilliant, but trouble.
“Ah, you’ve arrived.” Remy’s accent slithered with deep Louisiana Cajun.
“With a guest. Lizzie, have you met Remy Lomand?”
“In passing.”
Remy hopped to his feet. “If all your guests will be as beautiful, I insist you bring a new one every week.”
Lizzie grinned. She held out both hands and let the Cajun take them in his. “Weekly? Do you go through women so quickly?”
“On good weeks, even faster.”
Dima didn’t like seeing Remy holding on to his partner. The sharp spike that lanced up the back of his head came from sudden, pinching tension. Why now? Why not when she’d straddled Paul in his dressing room? How was he supposed to make firm plans if he couldn’t trust his unconscious reactions?
The door opened behind him and Jeanne appeared. Side by side, Dima regretted teasing Lizzie with a comparison. Too many sharp edges, too narrow through the face, Jeanne could never compare to Lizzie—or Paul, for that matter. Dima would take either of them over the slightly space-case dancer any time.
The smirking expression on Lizzie’s face said she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her gaze dropped to his dick, and she licked her lips.
Jesus. She’d swallowed him—his whole shaft and his come. Every measured lick had driven him higher and farther.
It wasn’t enough.
He would have her. All of her. He’d made up his mind. Now it was a matter of convincing her. Grasping her tight ass and levering her up against a mirrored wall probably wouldn’t be the best measure of persuasion. Patience. Goddamn fucking
patience
.