Over the years, other opportunities had come along for both of them. She hadn’t ever considered them. Why would she? He was her partner, and that was enough. That had been…simple.
Staying in bed with Paul would’ve been less complicated—a lovely morning fuck—but she pushed out from under his heavy forearm. Some things were worth it when they were complicated. If she had any chance of convincing Dima to rejoin her on tour, and to keep their partnership intact, she needed to hold on to the rituals and connections that made them special.
Put the sex away.
God, she didn’t want to. She wanted his mouth on her all over again. Glancing back to where Paul lay sprawling, the covers dipping low over his hip, she tugged on her yoga clothes. He could play too. That Paul had pinged as a mere afterthought gave her a shiver.
On silent feet she emerged from the bedroom and found Dima in the dining room. He stood with his back turned, staring out the window that overlooked the street. Yoga pants. No shirt. Hair a sexy tangle. A hard clench of want shot heat out from her belly.
Mine.
Her skin turned to ice.
No.
This was a fun time. A crazy weekend. Nothing like her body’s greedy shout—that she should walk to him and drape herself along his beautiful back, kissing the hollow between his graceful shoulder blades. Even if it wouldn’t be risking their partnership, she needed more emotional sustenance than he could provide. He’d have her searching for clues for the rest of their lives.
Beyond all that, he was still…Dima. The weekend had opened her eyes to him as a man for the first time, but what new could be had from a relationship so entrenched? With so much platonic history?
“Morning,” she said, ducking into the kitchen to grab orange juice.
He met her in the kitchen doorway, a cup of cooled tea in his hand. After his customary kiss to her forehead, he said, “Dobroe utro. Sleep well?”
From anyone else, that would’ve had innuendo or jealousy or something written all over it. Swear to God, from Dima it was only a question.
“Fine. Nice, actually. He doesn’t snore.”
A tight nod. A tick along his jaw. “He didn’t go home?”
“You know he didn’t,” she said, walking away.
After finishing her juice, Lizzie unfurled her yoga mat and flicked a glance to Dima as he moved the coffee table. Everything the same. Yet…not. Supercharged in a way that was definitely not their usual morning routine. Her need to goad him only added another layer.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
He grabbed his mat and unrolled it across the hardwood. “Ask what?”
“Whether Paul and I had sex without you.”
Eyes intent, he drilled into her with maddening intensity. He thought he had the right to pull that shit with her, never offering up the same information in return. Lizzie tightened her hands into fists.
“You make too much noise, little one,” he said simply. “So either you didn’t, or he didn’t make it worth your while. I can’t imagine the latter.”
With that, he began his first sun salutation. Lizzie knew doing yoga with a hardcore angry going on would only leave her sore and exhausted. Quiet breathing, calm mind, better results. As she joined him in that familiar sequence, she knew that wasn’t going to happen.
She bent into downward dog. Every muscle and tendon creaked a sleepy protest. Between dancing with Remy and Dima, their adventures with Paul, and the arduous process of reclaiming her flexibility, she was a stiff mess. She liked to think she’d be back in fighting form any week now, but sometimes her fears got the best of her. Maybe she wouldn’t ever be as good as she once was.
Where did Dima put it all? All the nerves and worries and doubts? That he practiced yoga to relieve stress was another sliver of knowledge she’d gleaned by accident. Their coach had asked, offhandedly, how the exercise was helping with his insomnia. Lizzie had been offended. Apparently sharing such a personal weakness was off the table.
Dima glanced at her as she bent low over her legs, stretching her hamstrings. “Don’t push too hard.”
“I know how hard I can push.” The words came out more sharply than she intended, but screw it. “Part of my job is to know my body’s limits. Unless you don’t think I’m capable of that anymore.”
“So fucking ambitious,” he muttered.
“What?”
“You. Always too fast. You’d storm a machine gun nest to prove me wrong.” He shrugged with his eyebrows and arched back, arms stretched. Already a gleam of sweat slicked his tummy and shone along his collarbones. “So go ahead. Pull something. Sprain something. Forget I said anything.”