This was simply dancing with Dima, and it was everything. She put her soul into their union , drinking up his smile when it flashed. That they had discovered the cheeky playfulness required of the cha-cha was a minor miracle.
He twirled her into a stage curtsy with the finishing flourish of music. The inside of her knee reminded her that she wasn’t perfect anymore, but that single misstep had allowed her to find an otherwise unknown spotlight. She knew what she needed for the future to be solid and good. He bowed right alongside her.
They crossed to stage left and grabbed the water bottles Fabian extended. “Friggin’ fantastic,” he said. “Damn.”
Dima eyed Lizzie as his throat worked the quick swallows. Only a few. He had it down to a science, how much he could drink without getting a stitch in his side. Everything remained…him. Methodical and thoughtful. He screwed the cap back on the water bottle. Still watching her.
“Say something.” She was breathless, but not entirely because of the dance. Physical therapy had prepared her, and working with Remy had reminded her body what it needed to do. No, this was entirely different, like a defendant waiting for a judge’s sentence. “Dima, please.”
He backed her against the wall. Suddenly. No warning. Hands at her hips, mouth on hers. She wrapped her arms around his slick torso. Back and clavicles. Tight waist and firm ass. He had the same idea, rucking her skimpy spangled costume up her thighs.
Oh hell no. Not again. She found the presence of mind—barely—to shove against his chest. When that didn’t work, she bit his lower lip. His growl of approval wet her panties in a hot rush. Good God, this was nuts.
“Performance,” she said with a grin. “That applause? It’s for us.”
“They don’t know the half of it.”
Fabian tapped Lizzie on the arm. “Bachata. Then you two can get back to whatever this particular move is. Wish I had a big Russian stud to teach me.”
“Find your own. I’m still working on this one.”
Dima visibly forced calm into his lean body. His back bowed on a long exhale. Lizzie turned toward the stage, while he stood behind her and crossed his sleek, sweaty bare arms around her stomach.
“How’s your knee? You up for round three?”
Hearing his concern, knowing how much guilt he took on himself even still, twisted in her gut. Some things would still take time to make right. Mostly by doing. “Yup. Followed by round four as soon as we get off stage.”
He groaned against her temple. “Lizzie, I mean it. You sure?”
“Trust, Dima,” she said in Russian. She twined their fingers together, and not-so-innocently pressed her ass back against his pelvis. “Besides, do you want this song to forever be the one where you saw me grind up on Remy?”
“Fuck no,” he growled.
“Good. Because you don’t have to break in this time. I’m yours.”
When the lights went up, they were back where they belonged.
Dima spun her on the first count. His thick thigh wedged between hers as he bent her back into a long, sensual arc. He trailed his lips down between her breasts and danced a four-count with his body bowed over hers. All the while their legs kept time, their hips hitting stroke after stroke. It was sex standing up. Pure and simple. Since everything she and Dima had shared with Paul, and with the passionate undercurrents they’d only just started to explore, they found a hardcore groove.
The lights made Lizzie feel as if they were being watched—not while dancing, but while devouring one another in Dima’s big bed. A need to be the center of attention had probably dragged her to the stage in the first place. It was a drug. She shared that high with Dima as he led and she followed.
She was ridiculously out of breath by the time the music concluded. Applause again turned Club Devant into a glittering madhouse. Everyone was on their feet, even Declan, who offered his praise by way of a slow clap and a marveled expression. Paul shook his head, equally stunned, but he followed it up with the grin that would rival the sun.
Whatever Fabian said about their departure from the stage was lost to her as Dima tugged her hand. He lifted his eyebrow in silent question. Lizzie waited until they found a dark, private corner to call him on his unspoken request.
She grabbed his face, fisting her fingers in his hair. “Dima. I mean it. We can’t keep putting this off. I need more.”
“I know,” he whispered, forehead to hers. “I promise. We’ll make this right. I’m not letting you go.”
Like inhaling helium, her body became lighter, floating in his arms. “I love you and I love what you just said, but it won’t be enough.”