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.