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.