Lead and Follow (5 page)

Now… Now he held Lizzie. Nothing would ever be more intoxicating.

He bent his body to hers, pressing his hard-as-hell cock against her side. She didn’t move. Just waited. He’d never known her to be a font of patience, but in this, for this moment, she’d found plenty. He couldn’t help but hope that held weight. Import.

She’d come to rest with her arms over her head, as if posed. In the dim light, her lips were little more than gleams. He traced the shine of her mouth with his thumb. So small and delicate. So easily hurt, no matter her toughness and determination. The power she burned through, whipping through life, always belied her size. She came off seeming bigger. Taller. More powerful. In reality, she was fragile. Beneath the rough push of his thumb, the flesh of her lower lip was tender.

And her knee.

That sickly twist when his grip had slipped.

Lizzie always pulled herself up from bad bumps and missed lifts, but not from that one. She was, in truth, surprisingly breakable—especially under his hands. Yet he didn’t have it in him to pass up the chance to have her. He’d been waiting too long, riding on nothing but tenuous hope.

Her tongue snuck a quick lick at the pad of his thumb. The wet heat seared his skin and snapped him back to their dim living room. His thoughts flew away like a murder of crows, dark and cawing.

“You live to tease me, little one.” His voice was rougher beneath the tense weight in his chest.

“Hmm,” she purred in her throat. Her smile deepened. “Never noticed that before.”

“What is it?”

“Your accent. It’s thicker. Like before a competition.”

“This is surprising to you?”

“Surprising, no. But I like it.” She stretched her arms overhead. “Staid, stoic Dima. Nothing ever affects you.”

Plenty affected him. All his tidy strategies, his silent ambitions. Too much to explain. Every fraction of his future included her. Moving on without her was like contemplating chopping off his feet. If she couldn’t agree with his plans for Devant, he’d just come up with another. And another. Until recently, however, she hadn’t offered any hint of sharing those crazy hopes. She hadn’t even come to see him dance. Until that night. When she’d pushed him to the edge of sanity and his cold, deep control by riding some Texan stranger.

No, better to keep the impossible locked away until Dima could get it right. Make sure everything worked out.

She was motionless, watching him, as if waiting for him to make his decision. That decision was easy—so easy, when touching her was possible.

He hardly knew where to start. So much beauty and temptation. Every inch of her deserved his full attention. He’d even crawl inside her brain and start over again, from the inside out. The day he actually figured out what was in that head of hers, he’d retire from dancing and become a guru on women. None could be more complicated than his Lizzie. None could be more perfect.

“You believe nothing affects me? Let me correct you.” He tucked his fingertip behind her ear, into the delicate divot there, where her skin was tissue thin. “Seeing you riding Paul… ‘Affected’ is hardly the word.”

“You could have said something. Done something. Kissed me.”

“I did, remember?” He touched two fingers to the exact spot where he had kissed her, right on her forehead. “Just like I always do when saying good night.”

“You could have stayed,” she said, the words nearly a whisper.

“And wank in the corner while you played with your new toy? No, thank you.”

“I would’ve liked to watch you.”

Dima dipped his chin and inhaled. Emotion and control and need churned until he couldn’t think straight. She was twisting him into knots. “I can smell him on you,” he finally said.

The sugared scent of luxurious bath products, that was Lizzie. She could spend longer in the shower than any person he’d ever known. Tonight, cloaked in the smells of a nightclub and sex, an element of spice clung to her sleek skin.

He bowed over her, keeping one hand at her waist. She couldn’t go anywhere. If she tried, he might turn into some feral version of himself, all teeth and growls and furious possessiveness. Holy mother, his world was narrowing to nothing but her. He flattened his other hand on the arm of the couch. The deep breath he dragged into his lungs was scented with both Lizzie and Paul—so heady and strong that he groaned.

“You don’t seem to mind,” she said.

“I find I don’t.”

She arched her spine, pushing her breasts higher. He trailed his index finger along her collarbone, down to the thin material between her tits. The satin of the dress was nothing compared to her skin.

“I’m not surprised his scent’s on me.” Her eyes drifted to dark slits and she smiled, sweet and sly. “He was all over me. In me.”

Dima’s breath quickened. He’d be furious if she tried to leave, but hearing her describe her encounter with the tall, rough bartender was unbelievable foreplay. He couldn’t have explained it had he possessed his entire mind. Which he didn’t.

He stroked down her waist, over her hip. He’d gripped her hips thousands of times. Never like this. Never had his heart hopped up to dance in his throat. So many things he’d like to do with her. To her.

Such a huge leap.

If things went bad…

Losing his best friend would shake his life to its foundation, but he might be on the cusp of losing her anyway. He wanted Devant and the freedom of new challenges. She wanted back on the same tired circuit, as if nothing had changed. Should he lose his Lizzie, he’d rather it be because they went out as champions—both on and off stage. If he was going to hell, he might as well get there running.

Moss-green eyes drifted shut as her body relaxed over his lap. The slope of her shoulders slumped deeper into the cushions as her knees loosened, as if she’d let him do absolutely anything. “Would you rather I don’t talk about him?”

“No,” he ground out. “Because it doesn’t matter. He’s not here.”

He cupped her hot pussy with his entire hand. His palm centered over the damp scratch of her lace panties.

Her quiet “Oh” went straight to his cock.

“How well did he fill you, little one?”

She gave a contented hum. “So well, Dima. He was big. Very.”

His chest clenched. Envy and excitement. Barely controlled. Rather than needing to squash a bubble of jealousy, his arousal jumped. His mind was a mess of confusion, but his body craved more of that gorgeous depravity.

With one flick of his wrist, he tossed her skirt up to pool over her stomach. The black of her panties was an enticing contrast to her strong, pale thighs. He traced a feather-light touch from her navel to the crease between her damp lips. Wetness. Heat. Exactly what he desired.

“Your scream…” He repeated the deliberate touch, pushing a little deeper this time. He was fairly sure her pussy was bare—one of the few tiny mysteries she’d kept lately. Be damned, he was so close to finding out, his hands shook. “Do you always scream like that?”

“Not every time.”

She shook her head, which spread her luminous hair against the couch cushion. The gold gleamed. He’d always thought her pretty, even beautiful, but when she’d arrived from her parents’ house with bright blonde hair, not her usual dark brown or raven black, something had tripped over inside him. It was like meeting a whole new woman.

“Only when it’s good,” she whispered. Her voice was quiet but not weak. That constant tingle of teasing made her stronger than she knew. “Only when I come so hard, it’s like I lose myself.”

That was a challenge if he’d ever heard one. He knew the steps, knew what he wanted to achieve, knew where his body needed to be. At that moment, he needed to taste her pussy more than he needed to keep dancing.

Dima stripped her panties. She let them go willingly, twisting her hips and laughing a little when he yanked them past her high heels.

Luscious. A tiny track of carefully trimmed hair arrowed down to his prize, one greater than three world championships. Light from the street gleamed off her damp lips. He tucked the panties into the pocket of his track pants. He’d keep those. The scrap of lace could retire in good grace.

“Come on, Dima. You know you want to.” Lizzie’s hand burrowed deep in his hair.

The intimate touch was something he’d missed. When they were younger, they’d never thought anything of touching. Their entire livelihood depended on physical contact. Even on tour, they leaned on one another. Sometimes literally, like the time they’d fallen asleep in full costume, propped against the corridor wall leading from the dressing rooms to the dance floor, exhausted and waiting to go on.

During the last six months, the space between them was a gulf, absent of touch. He missed it as much as he missed everything about her.

He shook free of that painful lack. “Want to…?”

“Lick me. Right where Paul’s huge cock fucked me.”

His low growl came without warning. She pushed him and pushed him. Always. Again.

Until he snapped.

He locked his hand around her wrist, pinned her arm above her head. “You’re not in charge here, little one. Don’t make that mistake.”

“No?” Her hips rose off his lap, but he held her still. “It didn’t feel like it earlier, when I straddled Paul right in front of you. I haven’t felt that kind of rush since we took home our last trophy.”

“That was then.” He pressed her wrist more firmly against the padded armrest. “Now, I’m about to make you come so hard that I hear your scream without a door between us.”

“Do you promise?”

“I do.”

If it took everything in him, hours of attention, he’d wring a scream from that beautiful mouth. It was everything he wanted, to inhale her satisfaction like the air he breathed.

Her grin wavered. Not so bright. More…confused. “You’ve never broken a promise to me.”

“I’m not about to start. Open for me, little one.”

She parted her knees so that one brushed the back of the couch. Her wet lips bloomed open. Dima shuddered in tense anticipation. He delved a finger between them before tasting. Her essence exploded across his tongue in a burst of sweetness and spice.

Wrapping his hands around her hips, he boosted Lizzie off his lap and pushed her up. Either surprise or long reflex kept her rigid, as if preparing for a lift. He positioned her just as he wished: half-sitting against the arm of the couch. He grabbed her knees and tugged. Her hips angled toward him. The swish of her skirt dropped back between her legs, but he flicked it away.

Dima settled on his stomach, stretched along the couch. The upholstered softness offered no satisfaction when he pulsed his hard cock. Not enough resistance. Soon, but later.

He didn’t start with small licks to warm them up. No point. That wasn’t what they wanted. Instead, he claimed her. All taking. All demanding. Lizzie arched deeper and cried out. He locked his mouth over her dripping cunt, drank her deep, delved his tongue into her mysterious secrets. He would make those secrets his.

At first the acrid tang of latex masked her true taste. It only took a few laving moves before a different, sweeter flavor emerged. Lizzie, soft and true. All for him. He licked her clit until he found a rhythm that made her squeal and writhe.

“Harder, God. Please.”

Although he sank two fingers into her sheath, he kept his movements slow. He didn’t give her the pressure she needed and even pulled back until she whimpered. After one more slow lick, he lifted his mouth.

“Who am I?”

The question roiled up from some dark place—the place that demanded more than the thrill of sex. Claiming her body wasn’t enough when that would fade with the last pulses of her release. After all, Paul had done that much. Dima was her partner and he would take what was his.

She tugged on his hair, trying to get his mouth back where she wanted it. “Please…”

But he wouldn’t be distracted. Not yet.

“Tell me who you’re with, Lizzie. Tell me who’s licking your cunt.”

Chapter Five

She’d thought his nickname was silly when they first met. Her thirteen-year-old laughter and reflexive, “It sounds like a girl’s name,” hadn’t been well received. He’d maintained a stoic snit for their whole first week of practice. Not the most auspicious beginning. Since then, she’d probably said his name a couple dozen times a day. It chimed more often in her head, as she assessed the world through his gaze and layered it over her own.

As Lizzie answered his question, she felt as if she’d never shaped its sound before. “You, Dima. You’re licking my cunt.” She couldn’t help her pout. “Or, you were. Do continue.”

He stared at her with those gorgeous, molten chocolate eyes, so soulful and perceptive. “When we dance, who leads and who follows?”

“What?”

The two fingers in her pussy shoved deeper. A sudden burst of sensation grabbed her breath, although he gave her nothing harder—nothing like the rough release she needed to blow away all this confusion.

“You heard me, Lizzie.”

“You lead and I follow.”

“All the time?”

She swallowed. “Sometimes I try to lead.”