Turning away was gut-wrenching. He’d never turned his back on Lizzie when she so desperately wanted to be seen.
Only years of training forced his body to obey. He moved past them to the wardrobe in the corner.
The chair creaked behind him. Dima didn’t look. If Lizzie wanted his attention, she had it. If she wanted more than that, she’d need to ask for it. He’d be damned if he would guess anymore. They stood at the sharp blade of change, ready to slice through and cut him and Lizzie apart forever. He didn’t think he could survive that, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to last long in this nowhere land.
He snatched the first set of clothes he found, to replace the sleeveless shirt he’d worn for the second half of his performance. Inside, a roiling swarm of energy buzzed. He always came off the stage popping, especially of late when he became so tense with the effort of protecting lesser partners.
This was more than he’d ever experienced.
The chair creaked again. Dima kicked out of his trousers.
Lizzie gave a little sigh that squeaked upwards to a moan. “Mmm, Dima… You’re good to me, aren’t you?”
Paul cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t know what kind of freak show you two have going, but I’m not sticking around—”
Lizzie’s crystalline giggle overrode whatever he’d been about to say. “It’s a little difficult to lie when your dick’s inside me.” She dropped her voice to a faux whisper. “You’re even harder than you were before.”
Dima shoved a washcloth under water. Cold, of course. Running it over his skin did nothing to cool him off. His blood still slammed a fandango.
Was he really standing for this? Yes. More than that, some small part of him was loving it. The pure wickedness of the situation made his cock ache. While he always planned and strategized, Lizzie tossed wrenches with the best of ’em.
Shifting to the left brought him in line with a mirror. From there he found a perfect, unobstructed view of Lizzie riding Paul. She’d lowered her forehead to his. Her hips worked over him. Big, calloused hands curled around her hips.
Paul glanced at Dima before planting his cowboy boots wide. He fucked up into Lizzie.
Dima jerked his gaze down to the washcloth in his hand as his nerves shot higher. That nod to privacy was ridiculous. Watching didn’t mean interrupting, not when they were in his damned dressing room. He found her face in the mirror and didn’t look away.
The pair had pressed their cheeks together, staring at Dima’s back. They were stroking with tiny movements that appeared no less powerful for it.
She wrapped her forearms around Paul’s neck and crossed her wrists. “Lovely, isn’t he?”
Paul didn’t answer with words, but he grunted. His ass came up off the chair. Lizzie gasped again, this time louder.
Thank God music from the club pumped through the air, this time a jerky, techno-flavored remix of some ’80s song. Only Dima and Paul would be lucky enough to hear her sweet noises.
She licked her lips, visibly trying to put on a front—as if she weren’t having sex as she chatted. “It’s all those hours of dancing. Dima’s a stickler for practice. I thought we’d wear ruts in the floor.” The perfect line up the side of her calf dug deep as she pointed her toes and hooked her feet over Paul’s knees. For leverage apparently, because she arced back. Her breasts rose, perky and full. “It’s given him an amazing body. Those shoulders. That gorgeous back.”
Paul spread his fingers wide over Lizzie’s ass. If it weren’t for the silky red material of her dress, his fingertips would be digging into the delicate skin between her globes. “How many times?” His voice had gone deeper and huskier, edged with something harsh.
Dima swallowed past the tightness in his chest and flicked the washcloth into the sink. He raked his fingers through his hair, but even pulling didn’t alleviate the noise in his head. His greed wasn’t going anywhere. His hands. On Lizzie. Her lush body, her mouth, her smile. He’d believed he would possess all of those beautiful things eventually, if he were patient enough.
Maybe not. Yet…this was all bloody surreal.
“How many times what?” She twisted her hips in the same move she used when dancing the rumba.
Dima gritted his teeth.
“How many times have you two slept together?” Paul asked on a groan.
She laughed, but the sound was rough. “Only once. A long time ago. It wasn’t that great.”
Paul watched Dima in the mirror, his face flushed beneath his sunshine tan, but Dima was tired of being used as some sideline attraction. He bent over to push his legs into a pair of workout pants.