Lead and Follow(17)

He found her clit once more, trapping her with a gentle vise of teeth. Tongue, over and over. She pulsed her finger in time as his cock hit the back of her throat, stretching her, demanding that she take more.

She was that woman now. He wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the morning without remembering how he’d claimed so much, how she’d claimed so very much in return.

Since she’d walked in the door, fire had been building. Now it swept over her in a flash, like fall kindling struck by a spark. Her orgasm slammed up from where he sucked and nipped. She screamed, just as he’d wanted. Just as she’d wanted to. That harsh sound caught around a mouthful of cock. He ground his face against her pussy as she shattered and quaked. The beat of his pelvis faltered. A full-body shudder was her only warning as come filled her mouth.

Lizzie swallowed and swallowed again. She took all that he had and made it a part of herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. Rarely was anyone worth such a special concession. With Dima, it was nearly as satisfying as her climax. He’d lost control, and she drank her reward with greedy gulps.

Her thighs shook as he slowly licked and eased her back down to earth. Cock, fingers, tongues—all slipped free of where they’d been joined. Dima rolled to one side, with his back to the couch. He flung an arm over his eyes, chest heaving. Lizzie worked her stiff jaw back and forth as she looked up at the ceiling striped by the streetlamps.

“It wasn’t as loud,” he said, his voice gravelly and very, very Russian. “I liked that scream much better.”

The compliment made her shiver, just before her confusion returned. Had to happen. The part where it would be over. The part where her mind would slam back into place.

“Dima—”

“Trust me, remember?”

Before Lizzie could protest, he sat up. His stomach muscles rippled and bunched in a way that left her dizzy all over again. He knelt, gathered her into his impossibly strong arms and urged her to stand. She didn’t want to move and certainly didn’t have the strength to. Lying there meant not needing to sort through the bizarre evening, nor having to face the consequences.

“Trust,” he said against her temple.

He lifted her, as he’d done literally thousands of times. This was no competition lift, with practiced handholds, momentum and the mutual goal of hitting the next beat. This was simply his raw strength pulling her up and close. He was slick with sweat, and even that familiarity was charged with a new intimacy. They’d made each other sweat for years.

Never like this.

He crossed their apartment and into Lizzie’s bedroom. A few moments later she found herself snuggled under the blankets. She should say…something.

Thank you?

That was great?

Stay with me tonight?

She huddled more deeply beneath the covers and said nothing. It was as if his unexpected tenderness—the man she knew, but in the guise of a new lover she’d just explored—had robbed her of thought.

“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.