She slid her hands over his shoulders and down his naked chest. He was tense. Incredibly tense. His little intake of breath encouraged her more than any words.
“You did,” she said. “You listened at the door of your own dressing room.” His taut stomach muscles bunched beneath her fingertips. “I wonder if you could hear him come over the music.”
He swallowed. “No.”
“Such a gorgeous low groan,” she whispered against his neck. “But I’m sure you heard me.”
Another swallow. His heart thundered beneath her palms, which only stoked the fizzle and pop in her blood. Oh, this was not good. Really not good. Because the concept of coming on to two men in the same evening—one of them the partner who rarely merited a second look—should’ve been repulsive. Trampy. Maybe even desperate, knowing she was only trying to prove herself after her injury.
Instead she felt powerful and so sexy. She would’ve traded every second with Paul had the choice been between riding that hot cowboy and stroking the firm, graceful muscles of Dima’s chest. Since when?
“I heard you, little one.”
“And?”
“And…I’m glad he satisfied you.”
Lizzie stood abruptly. Leave it to him to kill the moment. When he danced, he could convey any emotion, every emotion—from playful to outright panty-wet sexy. He was as much a talented actor as he was an amazing dancer.
Offstage, he had the reserve of a sealed bank vault. Again she wanted him to break loose. Shout and cuss and call her names and claim her. Anything other than the torture of being ignored. Was this why he’d been so quietly pissed at her for not coming to see him perform at Devant? Damn. Her fears aside, she should’ve been there for him.
“Never mind.” She turned toward her bedroom.
Dima grabbed her wrist and kissed the tender skin inside. “Me, though? Not satisfied at all.”
The rhythm of her heart stuttered. “Oh?”
He dragged her arm down his body, slowly, giving her every chance to withdraw. She wound up bent over the back of the couch, her breasts pressed against his nape, her arms stretched down his lean torso. With their fingers twined, he settled her palm over his cock.
Rock hard.
She fought to speak, knowing the volume would be all off. The rush of blood in her ears was just too strong. “What about Jeanne?”
With a move more suited to the dance floor, he grasped beneath her arms and pulled her over the back of the couch. Lizzie found herself lying on her back, stretched flat across his lap, with his thighs arching her spine. Dima, the man she’d known since he was a preadolescent kid fresh over from Moscow, stared down at her with the intensity he only revealed on stage.
When the stakes were their highest.
“Don’t you know, little one? She was the wrong blonde.”
Chapter Four
Dima had stretched Lizzie across his knees plenty of times. Hell, he’d flipped her upside down, put his face between her thighs, even smacked her ass, all in the name of good choreography. Like any red-blooded man, he’d noticed her body, especially as they’d both matured. He wasn’t dead.
Just the opposite. He was coming alive.
After breaking up with Svetlana six months earlier, and as Lizzie’s sexual teasing intensified, he’d had trouble keeping his desires in check. He couldn’t help looking at her differently. New fantasies. Darker needs. He wanted to lick her, just to see if her skin tasted as sweet as it was smooth. Yet none of those daydreams held the suspended power of this moment.
Her stomach was a flat plane as she arched back over his thighs. The sleek red dress clung to the tempting swells of her breasts. The skirt hadn’t been long to begin with. Now it barely covered the apex of her toned thighs.
Considering the state of her panties the last time Dima had seen them, she might not even be wearing any.
The hot rush of his blood in his ears almost drowned out her raspy, panting breaths. He spread his hand wide over her stomach. When his pinkie grazed the hard thrust of her ribs, his thumb slid into a delectable dip. Her pussy was only a few inches lower. So close.
Christ, how could he be so close? This couldn’t be happening.
Beneath his gaze, however, his little one was waiting for him. She watched him with the sort of anticipation that burned in her eyes when they slayed the competition. Fierce. Greedy. Eager.
Keeping a steadying hand on her stomach, he leaned forward to set his empty vodka glass on the coffee table. He didn’t drink often. Experience with his parents—too much alcohol and too few goals—had left him wary of the poison.
The evening’s events had demanded a little release.
Now… Now he held Lizzie. Nothing would ever be more intoxicating.