Lead and Follow(75)

Until Club Devant, it hadn’t been Dima’s thing either.

He strutted to center stage and stood with his chest thrust back, his hips twisted toward the audience, as she prowled the black lacquer floor. The close hold she’d argued about with Remy was a blessing. It meant holding Dima, seeing him. Finally looking into his eyes and knowing whether her gambit would pay off.

His eyebrow quirked, nearly in time with the beat. “You’re not Jeanne.”

She pulled his white dress shirt out of his waistband. The buttons flew open with a single yank. Applause like a collapsing stone wall crashed around them. “And you’re wearing too much.”

“Lizzie…”

They’d already missed the start of Remy’s planned choreo, but this was important. Slinking down Dima’s bare chest seemed to entertain the hooting crowd.

Down she went, shimmying until her knees brushed the stage, then up just as provocatively. The beat was doing wicked things to her hips. Wickedly good things. She spread her fingers wide and made it her mission to touch every ab and rib and gorgeously stacked lat as she climbed.

A hard shudder shook his shoulders. He tipped his face to the ceiling, closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. Lizzie licked the hollow at the base of his throat, which incited Club Devant to near-riot levels of energy. It fed her courage and her muscles.

She nuzzled beneath his ear. He smelled of Paul’s cologne, which made her smile against his hot skin. So many distractions. The noise. The lights. The overwhelming urge to move and just get lost in the music. She’d done that as often as she’d drawn breath.

This time, she had something to say.

“I’m not going anywhere and neither are you. This is forever, Dima mine.” She pulled back into a slow body wave and flipped her hair. “Now let’s give these people a show.”

The man she loved—because oh, Christ, she loved him—had assumed the expression of a warrior. A hunter. He was after her.

They’d missed sixteen bars of choreography, but with one four-count of samba basic, they were back to it. Just like that. As if the tension and heartache simply dissolved into molecules of sweat. He pulled her groin-to-ass into four body rolls that circled the stage. Above her, alongside her, and as the foundation that kept her solid and safe, he was her Dima. Her partner and her lover.

They danced like lovers. Although he maintained the same ridiculously upright, graceful frame, Dima’s hands…owned—owned her shoulders, her arms, her waist, until he twined their grips. He brought their torsos together. Breast molded to pecs. Belly pressed against belly. Never in competition had he been so bold. The incredulous expression he wore said he recognized as much, as if outside of himself, although that didn’t stop the resurgence of his hunter’s intensity. He grabbed with whole hands, his need sinking into her flesh as deeply as his taut, greedy fingertips.

Out of nowhere, he smiled. Bright. Beautiful. So near to bashful. The slight divot in his chin accentuated the lush fullness of his lower lip. Light cast shadows across his erect nipples. Muscles stood out in the sort of heavy relief that made artists grab the nearest paper and charcoal.

They didn’t have Dima, his body and his heat. They weren’t being blessed by his smile.

Lizzie laughed, threw back her head.

Game on.

Everything flared to life. Kicks sharper. Hips faster. Turns more precise. The lift they executed was textbook perfect, all sweet momentum and easy balance. The right give and take—and a cheeky pinch on her ass. Lizzie grinned like a maniac while giving her tits a quick shimmy. From that high vantage, atop Dima’s shoulders, she caught a glimpse of a tall Texan wearing a suit and cowboy hat. Paul leaned against the bar, a customer tonight rather than an employee. She blew him a kiss.

Hands locked with Lizzie’s, Dima brought her out of the lift with a dramatic death drop. She came to a stop with her nose mere inches from the dance floor, but they never got it wrong. She could’ve had an arrow tattooed on her wrists pointing to the exact spot held each time. A complete waste of ink. Dima had her.

Up. In his arms. Close hold, bodies practically fused. His heartbeat would feel like hers, like the rhythm of that dance. Eyes the color of midnight shadows glowed with triumph. Two synchronized body waves later, more applause hurtled out from the tables. The rest of the club became a blur of red and gold to match their costumes. She and Dima were exotic creatures camouflaged for such an environment.

She belonged here.

It was bone-deep knowledge.

The samba ended, followed immediately by the cha-cha. Every move became easier, more tuned to his. How could she have believed that competition dancing was all they had in them? Too many rules. Barriers. Expectations. She breathed this freedom deep into her lungs and shook it out with every kick and step and spin.