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Authors: Katie Porter
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Lomand?”
“In passing.”
Remy hopped to his feet. “If all your guests will be as beautiful, I insist you bring a new one every week.”
Lizzie grinned. She held out both hands and let the Cajun take them in his. “Weekly? Do you go through women so quickly?”
“On good weeks, even faster.”
Dima didn’t like seeing Remy holding on to his partner. The sharp spike that lanced up the back of his head came from sudden, pinching tension. Why now? Why not when she’d straddled Paul in his dressing room? How was he supposed to make firm plans if he couldn’t trust his unconscious reactions?
The door opened behind him and Jeanne appeared. Side by side, Dima regretted teasing Lizzie with a comparison. Too many sharp edges, too narrow through the face, Jeanne could never compare to Lizzie—or Paul, for that matter. Dima would take either of them over the slightly space-case dancer any time.
The smirking expression on Lizzie’s face said she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her gaze dropped to his dick, and she licked her lips.
Jesus. She’d swallowed him—his whole shaft and his come. Every measured lick had driven him higher and farther.
It wasn’t enough.
He would have her. All of her. He’d made up his mind. Now it was a matter of convincing her. Grasping her tight ass and levering her up against a mirrored wall probably wouldn’t be the best measure of persuasion. Patience. Goddamn fucking patience .
To string his tension even tighter, practice took forever. All because of his gorgeous tormentor. She’d staked a place to watch by the door. Kicking her feet up on the bench was a nicely crafted measure of can’t give a shit , but with regard to dance, he knew her. The way she tracked their every movement gave her away. Slender fingers twitched to the beat pumping through the sound system. Once in a while, her toes counted out steps along the wood. Totally unconscious. She’d never been able to resist rhythm.
“No. No, no, non .” Remy’s voice cut through Dima’s haze. “It’s got to be lower. Meaner. Here, Lizzie, help me show her.”
Jeanne shoved sweaty blonde hair back from her forehead, retied her ponytail and stood with her hands on her hips. “Come on, Remy. She hasn’t done the choreo.”
“Oh, no way,” Lizzie protested. She flicked her fingers at them. “Off with you. I have to baby my knee. I can’t do it.”
“You’re five months off from your last surgery. Your knee’s perfectly fine.” Remy’s grin flashed white in his swarthy face. “But never mind. Jeanne’s right. You probably can’t do it. The talented Ms. Maynes is known for her exacting posture. I doubt you can get dirty enough.”
Eyebrows a few shades darker than her pale hair shot up.
Dima turned to scoop up a bottle of water from his workout bag. Really, the move was to hide his triumphant grin. Lizzie was about to chew the Southern boy up one side and down the other. Every time Dima hinted that she should dance for Club Devant, she’d sneered at him about sullying the purity of the steps. That if she did anything, she did it right. Among worthy peers.
She rarely backed down from a dare, which went hand in hand with her penchant for snap decisions. Dima had been pussyfooting around their reunion too much to remember that, or he would’ve used it against her weeks ago.
She stood and offered her hand to Remy. He talked her through the steps he wanted to show Jeanne before offering a demonstration. His palms clasped Lizzie’s hips. His index fingers had to be brushing the tips of her pubic bones. He tucked her along the front of his body. Their hips started to swing along to the beat, sinking low in an off-tempo move that screamed sex.
Something hard smashed down inside Dima.
It didn’t make any sense. He’d seen Lizzie dance with other men before, for lessons—both given and received. Even seeing her astride Paul’s muscled thighs hadn’t produced this heady, possessive response.
“Mmm,
“In passing.”
Remy hopped to his feet. “If all your guests will be as beautiful, I insist you bring a new one every week.”
Lizzie grinned. She held out both hands and let the Cajun take them in his. “Weekly? Do you go through women so quickly?”
“On good weeks, even faster.”
Dima didn’t like seeing Remy holding on to his partner. The sharp spike that lanced up the back of his head came from sudden, pinching tension. Why now? Why not when she’d straddled Paul in his dressing room? How was he supposed to make firm plans if he couldn’t trust his unconscious reactions?
The door opened behind him and Jeanne appeared. Side by side, Dima regretted teasing Lizzie with a comparison. Too many sharp edges, too narrow through the face, Jeanne could never compare to Lizzie—or Paul, for that matter. Dima would take either of them over the slightly space-case dancer any time.
The smirking expression on Lizzie’s face said she knew exactly what he was thinking. Her gaze dropped to his dick, and she licked her lips.
Jesus. She’d swallowed him—his whole shaft and his come. Every measured lick had driven him higher and farther.
It wasn’t enough.
He would have her. All of her. He’d made up his mind. Now it was a matter of convincing her. Grasping her tight ass and levering her up against a mirrored wall probably wouldn’t be the best measure of persuasion. Patience. Goddamn fucking patience .
To string his tension even tighter, practice took forever. All because of his gorgeous tormentor. She’d staked a place to watch by the door. Kicking her feet up on the bench was a nicely crafted measure of can’t give a shit , but with regard to dance, he knew her. The way she tracked their every movement gave her away. Slender fingers twitched to the beat pumping through the sound system. Once in a while, her toes counted out steps along the wood. Totally unconscious. She’d never been able to resist rhythm.
“No. No, no, non .” Remy’s voice cut through Dima’s haze. “It’s got to be lower. Meaner. Here, Lizzie, help me show her.”
Jeanne shoved sweaty blonde hair back from her forehead, retied her ponytail and stood with her hands on her hips. “Come on, Remy. She hasn’t done the choreo.”
“Oh, no way,” Lizzie protested. She flicked her fingers at them. “Off with you. I have to baby my knee. I can’t do it.”
“You’re five months off from your last surgery. Your knee’s perfectly fine.” Remy’s grin flashed white in his swarthy face. “But never mind. Jeanne’s right. You probably can’t do it. The talented Ms. Maynes is known for her exacting posture. I doubt you can get dirty enough.”
Eyebrows a few shades darker than her pale hair shot up.
Dima turned to scoop up a bottle of water from his workout bag. Really, the move was to hide his triumphant grin. Lizzie was about to chew the Southern boy up one side and down the other. Every time Dima hinted that she should dance for Club Devant, she’d sneered at him about sullying the purity of the steps. That if she did anything, she did it right. Among worthy peers.
She rarely backed down from a dare, which went hand in hand with her penchant for snap decisions. Dima had been pussyfooting around their reunion too much to remember that, or he would’ve used it against her weeks ago.
She stood and offered her hand to Remy. He talked her through the steps he wanted to show Jeanne before offering a demonstration. His palms clasped Lizzie’s hips. His index fingers had to be brushing the tips of her pubic bones. He tucked her along the front of his body. Their hips started to swing along to the beat, sinking low in an off-tempo move that screamed sex.
Something hard smashed down inside Dima.
It didn’t make any sense. He’d seen Lizzie dance with other men before, for lessons—both given and received. Even seeing her astride Paul’s muscled thighs hadn’t produced this heady, possessive response.
“Mmm,
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