That made Lizzie laugh, easing some of her anxiety. She waved goodbye to the Cajun and caught Dima’s arm on the way out. He didn’t break stride as they walked down the central corridor. Declan’s apartment took up the west side of the second floor, with the practice rooms just opposite.
“When do you perform this one?” she asked.
“Two weeks. Friday night opening.” His eyebrows pinched into a frown. His concentration face. “I don’t think she’ll be ready. Too much ground to make up.”
“Of course she will. She’s got you.”
“Sarcasm?”
Teaching a Russian teenager about sarcasm had taken a long time, and even still, he tended to miss more subtle jabs. “Not at all.”
They were just coming to the steps when the exit door opened to reveal Paul.
Dima pulled up short. Lizzie didn’t hesitate. She gathered the bartender up for a hug that stopped short of the bump and grind she’d practiced that afternoon. Paul caught her with a hand low on her back. With boots, jeans and cowboy hat, he was a Texan wet dream—and an absolute relief after the last twelve confusing hours she’d spent rewriting rules with Dima. He was also another way to keep her frustrating partner’s attention. If she had to grasp at straws, she’d do it with Paul.
“Hey, you,” she said.
“I’m only here to get my paycheck.” He kissed her full on the mouth. Oh, she liked that. Up front and still interested and apparently oblivious to whatever Dima thought. His straightforward attitude was such a relief. “Didn’t realize I’d earned a bonus so soon.”
“I’m sure you do great work behind the bar.” She turned in Paul’s arms and threw her partner a sultry look. “You remember Dima, of course.”
Wow.
She’d seen lightning storms with less crackle. Maybe some of it was competition, but she didn’t get the same sullen
hands off
vibe Dima threw around when she’d danced with Remy. This was deeper. Like marrow and sinew and the salty taste of skin. Paul and Dima sized each other up with a mixture of heat and cool reserve, as if waiting for a move, a sign, a word.
It made her inexplicably proud that Dima took the lead. Relieved, even. Maybe she wouldn’t have to attempt impossible mind-reading when it came to his attitude toward Paul.
He extended his hand. “Dmitri Turgenev.”
“Paul Reeves.”
They shook hands, both solid grips revealed in the hard bunch of forearm tendons. Lizzie shivered. Heat that had barely subsided burst through her body like a volcano blowing its top.
Depraved. So
wrong
.
She wanted them both.
Her connection with Dima was deeper and more complicated, which was probably why flirting with Paul was so much fun. A beautiful, sunny counterpoint to all her confusion. Could having two men actually help her understand one better? Damn, that was screwed up.
“Paul,” she said. “Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Not that I know of. You offering?”
She locked gazes with Dima. Her ripped-open feeling was reflected in eyes the color of hot cocoa. About their job, they’d been communicating without words for more than a decade. Disguising a busted lift. Recovering a missed step. Silently slagging off a harsh judge. This had nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with the weird place their relationship had slipped into.
“
Podelishsja?
”
“
Zavisit ot nego
.”
Christ, they weren’t having this discussion. Couldn’t be.
Are you going to share?
It depends on him.
She slipped her fingertips in the waistband of Paul’s jeans. “Our Dima thinks it’s cute to speak so that no one else understands. I think it’s rude. However, he has grown into a really good cook.”
“A miracle,” Dima said with a shrug. “Russian cuisine is mostly potatoes, sausage and homebrew vodka.”
“Not exactly best for a dancer,” she added.
As if testing the waters, Paul nuzzled her temple but spoke directly to Dima. “I happen to like vodka.”
Lizzie traced his jaw with her forefinger. Stubble. Just like Dima the night before. She was going to fucking explode, imagining and anticipating. To go through with it might not be possible. Damn if she wasn’t going to try. “So, you game? I’m sure he’ll make us something fantastic.”
Paul let loose a slow, wide grin. “I’m sure he will.”
“Eight o’clock?” She gave him the address, followed by a lingering kiss. He was a hellacious kisser. Didn’t rush, even when that was exactly what she wanted. The result was a stronger high.
“Eight o’clock,” he echoed. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m off to brave the mountain of paper in Mr. Shaw’s office. He keeps insisting there’s a system.”
He let go of Lizzie and tipped his cowboy hat. Still, he didn’t hurry away. Tall and lanky, he passed within inches of Dima. Again, that crackle and spark. Lizzie held her breath, willing them to touch. To combust right in front of her. Paul only grinned again and walked on, shaking his head slightly.
Lizzie needed air. She turned toward the stairwell, willing strength into her watery thighs. Dima followed close behind. When halfway down to the first floor, he snatched her trailing hand. Gathered her up. Backed her against the wall. Powerful arms wrapped tight, low across her ass and high across her shoulders.
Mouth met mouth. A sudden burst of flavor, different from Paul, harder than Paul. No teasing kiss, this was an embrace that bordered on assault. She could’ve grabbed the handrail for support, but nothing in the world was steadier than Dima’s body. Balance and control. Strength.
He had her, and she reveled in his wildness.
Endless, breathless seconds later, he pressed his forehead to hers. A bubble of energy wiggled out of her abraded lips in the form of a giggle. Surprise of surprises, he smiled again. That was too many to count in such a short span of time. They were like two dirty kids sharing a secret about what went on behind the high school equipment shed.
He slicked his tongue across her lower lip. Once. Twice. He slipped inside. Gently this time. Still as breathless.
“You’ll be late for your appointment.”
She blinked. “Damn. You’re right.”
“We’ll share a taxi,” he said, his no-nonsense voice strained. “And you can help me plan dinner.”
Chapter Eight
Until the doorbell rang, Dima hadn’t the slightest clue what he would feel. The idea of standing by while Lizzie invited Paul to dinner should’ve seemed counterintuitive, yet he’d done it. Even…encouraged the invitation. Afterward, he’d kissed the hell out of her in the stairwell when he hadn’t been able to wait a second longer.
As soon as he thumbed the intercom button, however, he knew. Anticipation. His muscles bunched hard with the buzzing, prepared momentum he gathered before swinging Lizzie into a lift.
“Yes?” Giving hints as to his nerves wouldn’t serve anyone.
“It’s Paul.”
Dima hit the button to release the street door. “Third floor. Come on in. It’s open.”
Stepping back into the kitchen area, he gave the potatoes in the skillet a little flip before they burned. Olive oil sizzled. When the front door opened with a click, he turned and smiled.
“
Dobro pozhalovatj
,
” he said. “Welcome to our home.”
He couldn’t help the extra emphasis on
our
. Paul might be a welcome visitor and one he wouldn’t mind sampling, but he was just that—a visitor. Dima and Lizzie were a unit. His every decision and plan focused on that end. It was only what
sort
of unit they would become that was shifting into new and fantastical directions.
The way she’d danced with him…laughed with him…
It had been too long—heartbreakingly familiar, yet so new as to make him shake his head.
By the look he slanted at Dima, Paul got the message loud and clear. “Thanks for the invitation.”
The man looked good, of course. His usual white T-shirt had been traded for a heather-gray Henley, but he still wore a pair of raggedy jeans. Worn-white patches across the thighs made Dima think of handholds and biting. Dima wanted Lizzie. Craved her. Everything else faded when compared to the desires he could no longer keep in check. That didn’t mean he was blind. Paul was distractingly attractive.
The man approached Dima, holding out a bottle of wine, enough for Dima to smell his slightly sweet, mostly spicy cologne. He had an instant flashback to where he’d last smelled it: all over Lizzie before he licked her, relished her wet arousal. His blood surged.
Dima took the wine. “Thanks.”
“I hope it’s decent. My sister said it was.” Paul shrugged. “Lizzie?”
“She’s still getting ready.” The hiss of the pipes turned off as if on cue. Lizzie would be soaking wet, dripping from her shower. Dima stirred the smallest pot on the stove. “She seems to feel a need to dress up for you.”
Paul’s smile lit deeply wicked places. Along with his buzzed blond head, the man’s bright and shiny grin topped off his perfect American image.
“I’m certainly not going to object.” Paul eyed the rest of the apartment. “Nice digs.”
A couple quick flips set the burners on low. The food could simmer a while. “Here, let me show you the rest.”
There was something strange about showing another man his territory, especially knowing Paul would be inside Lizzie in an instant if she gave him the nod again. The nod that she’d failed to give Dima. Maybe that should have bothered him more. Maybe he should have been more worried. He only regarded it as a step. A challenge. Their world was changing. He couldn’t imagine that process would be easy, but nothing they’d tried together ever was. Yet they triumphed.
The key word was
together
. That was becoming harder to define when their goals were so opposed.
“My sister and I live together too,” Paul said as they drifted through the dining room. “Saves on rent. This city’s a hell of a lot more expensive than Corpus Christi.”
Dima allowed himself to smile. “Lizzie and I haven’t needed to room together for a long time. We simply prefer it that way.”
“Old habits die hard?” Blue eyes flashed. Paul’s grin turned impish.
The growl building in Dima’s throat was held back by pure will. The man made him sound as if he were some old T-shirt yet to be discarded in the Goodwill pile. He held down the surge of emotion. Paul didn’t know the depths he’d wandered into by stepping into their domain. Hell, even after so long, Dima had moments where he was just trying to keep his head above water. Keep up with frantic Lizzie.
“More like, once a person finds a good partnership, breaking it up is foolish.”
Paul’s gaze flicked over him in a look that was pure hunger, enough to take the edge off Dima’s surprising possessiveness. Paul was novel and, better still, he was a hot-as-hell distraction. Dima’s forearms stiffened with the urge to reach out and grab.
The bartender pivoted on a boot heel and shoved his hands in his back pockets as he walked away. “I’m not looking to break anything up. I like my life easy. If that’s what you’re worried about, you might as well let it go.”
“I’m worried about nothing.” Dima could hear that his words came out clipped, heavy with accent.
Wide shoulders shrugged. “Fine. No harm, no foul.”
They stepped side by side through the archway into the living room. Dima found himself looking at the small room with new eyes. If they all congregated here after dinner, how would they arrange themselves? The couch was comfortable for two, but three would be a squeeze. Especially if two were men.
Dima didn’t think he’d mind. Having Lizzie pressed between them, so close that every lovely inch of flesh crushed against him, provided interesting possibilities.
Paul wandered to stand before a bookshelf. Damn, his ass looked good in those jeans. The perfect size and shape to fill Dima’s hands, but there was no telling what his opinion might be. On the spectrum of sexuality, sharing an armful of woman wasn’t the same as fucking another guy.
Yet Dima would love to see that bright smile wrap around his cock. The intense sensation would force his hands to clench Paul’s skull. He looked like a man who’d take a little roughness—like it, actually.
Paul touched a four-picture framed set. “These you two?”
Lizzie had put the display together from pictures of their performance at the Vancouver International. Though Dima had been beyond pissed that they’d come in second for no discernible reason, he hadn’t been allowed to stew. He absolutely hated it when they fell short of his goals. Lizzie had practically brained him with pictures until he’d been able to see that yes, they’d had fun doing that dance.
The four she’d eventually chosen were of three poses and a lift, taken by a professional photographer hired for the event. Lizzie’s hair had still been dark brown. The silver beaded dress she wore had been so low-cut that she’d needed flesh-colored meshing and tape to hold her breasts in place.
Looking at the pictures as Paul would, Dima didn’t see the tape, or think about how Lizzie always needed three hairbrushes and an unfathomable amount of hair product to get her hair just right. She simply looked hot as hell. The way he held her by the hips as she arched back in the spin made the muscled swoop of her legs everything lovely.