To string his tension even tighter, practice took forever. All because of his gorgeous tormentor. She’d staked a place to watch by the door. Kicking her feet up on the bench was a nicely crafted measure of
can’t give a shit
, but with regard to dance, he knew her. The way she tracked their every movement gave her away. Slender fingers twitched to the beat pumping through the sound system. Once in a while, her toes counted out steps along the wood. Totally unconscious. She’d never been able to resist rhythm.
“No. No, no,
non
.” Remy’s voice cut through Dima’s haze. “It’s got to be lower. Meaner. Here, Lizzie, help me show her.”
Jeanne shoved sweaty blonde hair back from her forehead, retied her ponytail and stood with her hands on her hips. “Come on, Remy. She hasn’t done the choreo.”
“Oh, no way,” Lizzie protested. She flicked her fingers at them. “Off with you. I have to baby my knee. I can’t do it.”
“You’re five months off from your last surgery. Your knee’s perfectly fine.” Remy’s grin flashed white in his swarthy face. “But never mind. Jeanne’s right. You probably can’t do it. The talented Ms. Maynes is known for her exacting posture. I doubt you can get dirty enough.”
Eyebrows a few shades darker than her pale hair shot up.
Dima turned to scoop up a bottle of water from his workout bag. Really, the move was to hide his triumphant grin. Lizzie was about to chew the Southern boy up one side and down the other. Every time Dima hinted that she should dance for Club Devant, she’d sneered at him about sullying the purity of the steps. That if she did anything, she did it right. Among worthy peers.
She rarely backed down from a dare, which went hand in hand with her penchant for snap decisions. Dima had been pussyfooting around their reunion too much to remember that, or he would’ve used it against her weeks ago.
She stood and offered her hand to Remy. He talked her through the steps he wanted to show Jeanne before offering a demonstration. His palms clasped Lizzie’s hips. His index fingers had to be brushing the tips of her pubic bones. He tucked her along the front of his body. Their hips started to swing along to the beat, sinking low in an off-tempo move that screamed sex.
Something hard smashed down inside Dima.
It didn’t make any sense. He’d seen Lizzie dance with other men before, for lessons—both given and received. Even seeing her astride Paul’s muscled thighs hadn’t produced this heady, possessive response.
“Mmm, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Remy said. His mouth was entirely too close to hers. “I knew you had it in you.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know your dancing. YouTube.”
“You like to watch, do you?”
“Naw, that’s Declan’s thing.” He spun their bodies in a tight circle, pausing briefly to indicate the video camera in the far corner of the practice room. “Didn’t you see the signs downstairs?”
“Sure. ‘You are being watched.’ That’s not a joke?”
“Nope. They’re everywhere. Dressing rooms too.”
Damn.
Dima screwed the top back on his water bottle and tossed it into the corner. Turning away didn’t help. The entire room was banked with mirrors. If he wasn’t looking dead-on at Lizzie as she rocked against the charming choreographer’s undulating body, he got a prime view of her laughing reflection.
She hadn’t laughed like that with him, not for a long time. They’d worked hard, yeah. Intense, definitely. Even when teasing him with little sexual innuendos, she’d always done so with playfulness in her smile. Something joyful and easy was missing between them.
Laughter.
He knew why, without needing to dig too deeply. After all, he remembered the sickening crunch of bone against hardwood every time he thought of her knee.
He wanted to laugh with her again. Club Devant would be good for them. The way to let go and unwind. He just needed her to unwind with him, not some slick Cajun player.
After having swirled her taste all over his tongue, he couldn’t keep his ideas clean. They were raunchy. Filthy. Incredibly exciting.
Seeing her giggle with Paul hadn’t produced this same dark tremor. If anything, he’d felt indulgent. He’d enjoyed admiring them together—such a pretty picture. He could step into that picture without any ripples or pain. Was the bartender so easygoing that he radiated that sort of nonchalance? No matter what it was, Dima’s jealousy was trumped by desire. He could admit that.
But Paul wasn’t anywhere around. And Remy was a goddamn snake.
He strode toward the grinding, smiling pair and snagged Lizzie’s free hand in the middle of a promenade. Tugged. Claimed. Brought her into the circle of his arms.
Her breath caught, even as she steadied herself so easily, so reflexively against his chest. “Dima?”
“I’m cutting in,” he growled against her throat. “If you’re going to dance like that, you’ll do it with me.”
Chapter Seven
For the second time in twelve hours, Lizzie was in Dima’s arms. This should’ve been easier and less fraught with confusion. It wasn’t. The possessive hunger in his magnetic eyes held her prisoner. That reaction was what she’d wanted the night before. For him to get
mean
. For him to stake his claim.
“Dance with me, Lizzie.”
It had been six months. Six interminable months.
She replied without words. Hands in his. Close hold. Chin lifted.
And they moved. She breathed as if for the first time. All Dima. He led her and she followed, as they’d taught each other throughout their career. The bachata, however…
Brave. Bold. Exciting.
Lizzie liked the dance, even though she’d only known it from clubs and backstage goofing off. Native to the Dominican Republic, it was only just acquiring a following in professional circles. That meant she could let go of formal training, rules, expectations. So could Dima. His right thigh wedged between hers. He lifted her arms into a high, close hold, and gave her a strange, completely new smile. One that said dancing wasn’t the only thing on his mind. In return, she gave him all that her hips had to offer.
She sank into a sit spin, spotting herself with the camera Remy had pointed out.
Dressing rooms too.
Had Declan Shaw been able to watch all that happened with Paul? With Dima standing before them, his delicious prick hard and eager? The thoughts gave her another rush.
Dima led her out of the spin, returning to the grind of his thigh against her pussy. Damn, it was a dirty dance. She tossed her head back, feeling effervescent. Her partner guided her with every step, his arm strong at her back. Maybe it was just the bachata, but she was able to let go. No competition here, other than the way she wanted to blow that girl Jeanne out of the water.
Remy clapped once and whistled. “You like showing off for him, do you?”
“He already knows what I can do.”
“I don’t think either of you do. C’mon now. He’s lovin’ this. Dirty it up, baby girl.” He held his hand out to Jeanne. “C’mere, girly. Let’s take notes from the masters.”
Lizzie met Dima’s eyes, which were intense and yet oddly playful.
“You heard him,” he said. “Let’s get dirty, little one.”
They both grinned. Everything they’d ever shared on the dance floor amped up, fueled by familiar competition and a sharp new edge of desire. She found the rhythm like a bird catching a fast updraft of air. Soaring. She held on to Dima’s shoulders, where hard muscle played beneath her palms. Their torsos came together for a long, slow grind. He took her around the waist, not even bothering with her hands. His heated expression promised he could lead using her hips alone.
She knew it. Knew it like she knew the feel of his body pulsing against hers. Primal and flat-out
sexy
.
He slipped a hand up her back, fingers splayed between her shoulder blades. Lizzie arched into that hold and stretched her arms overhead. Dima grazed his mouth down between her breasts, then yanked her up and into three whip-fast turns. Letting go, letting him lead, she worked harder than she had in months. She also melted on the inside.
Fantastic.
The track ended with Lizzie beautifully lightheaded. No way could she dance like that and not experience a hefty turn-on. A hardcore bachata affected her as strongly as a fast fuck up against a wall. Athletic. All about the pelvis, where man and woman fit together. She was a sweaty, slightly breathless mess, but damn did she feel good. With two fast spins, Dima dipped her back into a full body layout. He sank to his knee and bowed over her stomach. Both of them panted. Lizzie grinned at his quiet, contented growl.
With a flourish, he drew her to standing and freed her with a spin. The same exit as always, but supercharged with electric sensations. She felt slinky and hot—the first time in months she’d found that thrill on the dance floor. One look at Dima said he was equally dazed. If a humorless Russian ballroom dancer could drool without actually dripping saliva, he was doing just that.
Remy released Jeanne and met Lizzie by the sound system. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. A sheen of sweat glued the white tank top to his pecs, and his jeans rode low on lean hips and a toned tummy. “We could be great,
chère
,” he said softly. “But I think he got it covered.”
She wished it could be that simple.
“You’re very good,” she offered, running the hell away from the idea her desire was so obvious.
He huffed out a chuckle at her polite rejection. “You’re surprised, aren’t you?”
“By what?”
“Me.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Damn, you’ve got balls. But yes, you surprised me. I thought you were supposed to be a contemporary dancer.”
“All bets are off here. I mean, she’s supposed to be one too, but here we are dancing bachata.”
He flicked his gaze to where Jeanne took a sip of water. Her lack of confidence was obvious. Lizzie twisted her lips, knowing it was completely unfair to gloat about having shown the woman up. The thing was, Jeanne wasn’t a bad dancer. In fact she was probably fantastic in her given style. Under the rigors of Remy’s fast and sexy moves, however, she was entirely outclassed.
Remy stood at Lizzie’s back and kissed her shoulder. “You belong here with us.”
Across the practice room, Dima was glaring daggers. Probably the only reason she didn’t push Remy away.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said softly. Although the reasons were becoming hazy, especially as Dima ran his gaze over her.
Rather than press, he shrugged with a
suit yourself
frown. “Take five,
chères
.”
Dima met Lizzie in the middle of the practice floor. He handed her a water and closed tense fingers over her shoulder—just where Remy had kissed. Intentional? He’d locked down his hot-as-fucking expression. Hard to think she could know so little about him after fifteen years.
“Nice work,” he said with frustrating nonchalance.
Where had that growl gone? The one when he’d stolen her from Remy and the one he’d pressed between her breasts at the song’s conclusion?
“Thanks.”
“How’s the knee?”
Lizzie glanced down, as if she might see visible proof of what she assessed from the inside. It didn’t feel bad, only…a little underused. Physical therapy was doing its job, which included stretches and strength training—not lightning-fast steps. She had a long way to go, but this had been a delicious start.
“Not too bad. I think I’m done for today though. Sally will have my head if I come in worn out for my appointment.”
Dima stood too close, breathing through his nose. “I’ve missed your laugh, little one.”
He touched her cheek before backing away, clearing his throat. Lizzie only watched, mouth agape, as he stalked back to his duffle.
God, he was messing with her head. Something was working behind those mesmerizing eyes. Maybe he meant to show poor, injured Lizzie how good settling could be. Fun was fun, and grinding against Dima’s hard thigh had certainly been that. However, it wasn’t her career.
Their
career. If he wanted to call it quits on the circuit, he’d do it without her. No way was she washed up at twenty-eight.
But to tour without Dima? That thought sent shivers up her back. She took a quick gulp of water.
She stayed, though. As Remy put Dima and Jeanne through their paces for another hour, Lizzie sat back and nursed disquieting thoughts. Although she was tempted to join in again, she’d made her point—and got herself worked up in the process. The sex vibe angling between her and Dima since the evening before was crossing her mental wires.
He and Remy started into a good-natured shouting match. Lizzie had studied Russian since her fourteenth birthday, when she realized that Dima and their Kiev-born coach were talking about her. A smattering of French and German had come later—the languages of the international dance community. She was busy laughing along with their insults when Jeanne threw up her hands.
“I’ve had it!” She grabbed her bag and stomped out of the room.
Remy shook his head. “She ain’t gonna last.”
“I wouldn’t either with you two sniping at me,” Lizzie said.
“I doubt that,
chère
. Enough for today though,
non
? Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest. My mama would be heartily displeased if she learned I spent the morning grinding with you folks rather than making confession.”