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Lead and Follow(22)

By:Katie Porter


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.