“But?”
The other man fisted his hands on his hips. His position took up valuable space in the packed morass of bodies, but no one challenged or even brushed him. Declan was the undisputed king of Club Devant. “But she disappeared halfway through your first act.”
Dima made himself shrug as if a pure shot of fear hadn’t just cooled his guts. After weeks of hoping she would, Lizzie had decided to see him dance. She couldn’t even stay for the whole act before turning to another man.
When she was scared or hurting, she could make some pretty stupid mistakes. Dima had thought that a part of her past—those wicked teenage years when the freedom of touring meant freedoms of all kinds. Apparently not.
“So?”
“So?” Declan echoed. He studied Dima closely. “Fine. Play it that way if you want. When you find my bartender, tell him his break’s up.”
For Dima, shutting down his emotions as he walked through the busy club was absolutely impossible. He had too much on the line. His muscles tensed, already pooling with lactic acid. He didn’t have the luxury of cool-down stretches, only a slimy, oozing sort of fear.
He didn’t know what he would find. They’d always maintained a platonic front. Affairs outside of their partnership had silently become off-limit topics. Just…safer. Throughout two years spent with Svetlana Rodchenko, his most recent long-term relationship, Lizzie had managed to keep her distaste for the fellow ballroom dancer at bay. Dima had known her feelings, but he’d been grateful that she hadn’t pressed.
Since returning from her parents’ smothering brand of care, she’d become increasingly…demanding when it came to his attention. After he and Svetlana had parted ways, Lizzie began amping those demands to exciting, dangerous new extremes. Graphic descriptions of her last date, narrated with her cheeky, wicked smile, had burned into his brainpan—and fueled his jacking off for three weeks.
His hand was shaking as he reached for the doorknob of his dressing room. Sweat from the performance had dried, but a new sheen popped up on his forehead and across the back of his neck. He had an ominous feeling that whatever was behind that door was the start of…something.
The beginning of the end, or the end of a fresh beginning.
The flimsy particleboard door opened easily. A perfect triangle of yellow light poured from the corridor into the dressing room.
No matter what recklessness he’d believed Lizzie capable of, the truth was more extreme. He’d known it would be. That didn’t make the scene easier to process.
Lizzie straddled Paul in Dima’s chair, with her hands at the back of his head. They both froze mid-fuck.
“Well, well.”
He shut the door behind himself. His surprise made his voice more gravelly, his accent stronger. He hated that. She’d hear it and know, but maybe she wouldn’t hear the hurt underneath.
Lizzie blinked, her eyes unfocused. Her dyed-bright blonde hair was a feathery mess. A scrap of tiny black lace that used to be panties twisted around one of her four-inch heels. Paul’s jeans pooled around his thighs, showing off tanned, rock-hard legs beneath the swirl of Lizzie’s red dress.
Paul closed his hands over her back, almost protectively. “Hey, buddy, do you mind?”
She could’ve taken the man anywhere, screwed him anywhere. New York had thousands of motels and hotels. Or hell, there was always the alley behind the club.
Yet she’d brought Paul here, and she sure as hell wasn’t scrambling off the hard cowboy. In fact, under Dima’s gaze, her hips twitched. Her lips parted.
Feeling tight as piano wire, he crossed to where she sat with Paul still buried deep.
Fuck, Dima didn’t have a clue who he envied more. The sudden throb of his ready cock didn’t want to differentiate. It’d take either of them. Both. His conscious mind had dropped out somewhere along the way. Eventually he might feel terrible about all this. For now, his only thought was finally. Finally they weren’t stuck. They weren’t frozen in the limbo that had stolen the last half year.
Dima tugged her hair, gently but firmly. Her neck bowed in a graceful arch. He kissed her on the forehead.
“Privet, little one.” He locked eyes with Paul. Steady blue eyes looked back with a hint of challenge. “And hello to you too. I don’t mind. Continue fucking her in my dressing room. I’m sure she meant it that way.”
Lizzie’s soft gasp shot right through him. Just as hot as he’d imagined, even if it was another man giving her pleasure.
A decade and a half together, one way or the other, and he’d be damned if he could figure her out. At that moment, he sure as hell didn’t understand himself.