The Siren's Dance (19 page)

“Boy, do I know that feeling.” She smoothed his hair off his forehead. “Stas could switch moods so fast it gave me whiplash, left me trying to guess how I’d angered him.”

“I hate Stas for doing that to you.” And to his mother, and for so many other reasons, like having Anya first, and leaving him only to want.

With his free hand, he trailed the line of her jaw. So beautiful--her angular cheekbones, those bottomless brown eyes, the wide, full lips. Hunger rippled through him again, an appetite more desperate than for a candy, or a romp in the catacombs, or any other woman.

“Tell me what happened, Sergey.” Fear shone in her eyes--not panic, and not weakness, but the fear that someone she trusted wasn’t trustworthy after all.

And he wasn’t entirely trusting his own mind.

What could he tell her now? That for a moment it had seemed like more than a coincidence that all those parts of his life had come together in that one place? Or that the only reason he wasn’t peeling off that soft-as-sin sweater was that his father had been there first?

God, had Demyan really fucked her against the wall right there in that studio? Maybe Sergey’s subconscious had lured him there to burn the place down.

“How could he have ever hurt you? How could he have cast you off?”

Anya closed her eyes, desperate to contain the
vila
. Inside her, the ghost whispered like the wind in leaves,
Find Stas. Kill him
.
Find Stas. Kill him
. The cry hadn’t ceased since they’d left the intersection where Sergey had panicked. Vengeful power swirled through her as if she were still only air, a furious, driving need to go back and have her revenge.

She bore down on the tumult, had to be more powerful than it. Sergey needed a protector--her fearless guard dog had faltered, like a bristling hound retreating even as it bared its teeth.

And now, he touched her so sweetly, not with his signature charm and instinctive chivalry, but with all his raw, unguarded emotion--exposed, willingly vulnerable. Demyan had never been open, never needful with her. Always demanding and impenetrable.

Yuchenko was strong too, but he needed her now, had chosen to lean on her. That was a power as intoxicating as a
vila’s
, yet also tender. She wanted to enfold him, give him what he needed, because he had given her so much, and because in his desire was an assurance Demyan had never offered--that Sergey found her worthy.

They’d been this close before--closer--their mouths had fused, and mere satin had separated the heat of their aroused bodies. And every time he’d pulled away. She braced herself for yet another retreat.

He stroked her cheek. “What kind of fool would ever hurt you? How could he have cast you off?”

“Don’t say that.”
Don’t make me think you care.
But she pressed her face into his palm, unable to resist even the crumbs he offered.

“I have to. I need you to know. You deserve better than to be used and cast aside.”

A tear slid from her closed eye. “I already told you. He didn’t use me--not like that, no matter how much I begged. He held sex out as the reward. If my dancing pleased him, if I was good enough to be prima, only then he would make love to me.”

He squeezed her hand hard. “Never?”

She opened her eyes and found him gazing at her with the strangest look on his face.

“No. Not once.”

The strange look turned into a smile before he grabbed a fistful of her hair and brought her mouth to his. He moved his lips over hers with a ferociousness that melted her and calmed the
vila
to perfect stillness.

His tongue was as deft and perfect as she’d remembered, tasting, then letting her explore the soft heat of his mouth. He dragged her onto his lap, bringing one big palm up her spine, under her sweater. Vaguely, her mind tracked the movement of his hands until she became assured he was attentive to keeping the skin-to-skin contact that allowed her to stay solid.

Though it probably didn’t matter--even a return to her spirit form and an icy, panic-stricken re-materialization wouldn’t diminish her longing for this man. She wanted to pour herself into him, to give herself the way had she had to Demyan. But this was so much better, because Sergey would give himself too.

The thought smacked her in the face, and she pushed him back, rousing her ghost.

“Why does the sex thing even matter? I loved him. I was pathetic and obsessed. Yet it’s the physical part that bothers you. As long as he didn’t touch me like that, it’s okay?”

A blustery wind ruffled his hair, and he winced. “Anya--”

“I might be from the sixties, but that is positively medieval.”

His expression was so pained. “I know it seems that way.” He exhaled on a gust. “But trust me, it’s just about Demyan. I don’t care if you’re a virgin or you’ve had a hundred lovers. I’m just glad none were him.”

She didn’t completely understand, but she did trust him. And that meant it was probably time to admit something. She nibbled on her thumbnail like she was a schoolgirl, not very nearly the principal dancer of the Kiev ballet. “I haven’t had a hundred.”

“If it was two or ninety-nine, I don’t care, as long as I’m next.”

Her heart pounded, and the
vila
blew inside her, not a violent tempest but a hot sirocco. As if her body needed any help warming up. He certainly was next, along with being first.

“Take this off.” He tugged at her sweater, keeping that big palm splayed at her back.

She lifted it over her head.

His eyes changed, the lids lowering, his thick brown eyelashes so sultry. “Your skin. It’s so beautiful, like cream.” He traced a fingertip over the lacy edge of her bra.

Goosebumps rose up along her arms, and her nipples pearled. She glanced down to see if she sparkled with the
vila’s
energy, but it was just her own normal skin he praised.

“I’ve been dying to lick it, to taste you.” He bent his face to her neck and placed open-mouthed kisses there, sucking and nibbling.

She gasped, arching backward and bringing her breast up into full contact with his palm. He squeezed it, harder than she would have thought she preferred. In answer, lower than her belly, the muscles of her sex clenched in rippling waves, like heat radiating off a hot surface, turning her molten.

And--no fair--the man was still completely dressed.

“Funny. I’d spent some time imagining licking you too.” She pulled his jacket off his shoulders, then tugged at his T-shirt. She’d felt the broad planes and ridges of his chest through clothes, but to see him, all that sun-kissed skin. He looked to be chiseled out of luminous golden marble, but with a spray of dark blond hair across his chest.

She bent to his nipple and lapped at it. When he made a little grunt of approval, she nipped him with her teeth and earned a second. Her own nipples tingled with envy.

“Oh, please, take my bra off. I want to feel your skin against me.” He fumbled with the hook for just a second before freeing her breasts. She laced her arms around his neck, ready to draw him closer.

“Wait. I need to look.”

“Not like my nightgown left anything to the imagination.”

“And yet mine found plenty to ponder.” He stroked his thumbs over each of her nipples. “Gorgeous.” He teased each one. “So sensitive.”

“What did you expect? They’ve been frozen hard for fifty years.”

“Let me warm them then.” He brought his mouth to her breast, tracing the underside with his tongue and then closing his mouth over the whole mound, flicking her nipple, drawing on it with such an intense suction that those ripples of heat rocked her pelvis again.

She shifted, her thighs caging his, and found her sex pressed up against his erection. So hot and hard, even through the denim of his pants. She wanted to see it, touch it, and then to feel it slide into her body. She rocked along his length and he hissed.

“I need you naked, now,” he said.

She giggled, his adorable brand of bossiness, so mild compared to Demyan’s. She saluted. “Aye, Aye, Inspector Yuchenko.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. Then he hugged her to him and stood in one quick move, no doubt made possible by countless squats at the gym, which reminded her how impressive his naked thighs would be as soon as he carried her to the bed and dropped those pants.

Kneeling before her on the floor, he undid her boots, slid off her socks, and made a tantalizing game of just barely keeping in contact with her skin. His mouth on her breast. The shocking tickle of her little toe in his mouth. And when he unbuttoned her slacks and wriggled them down, letting only this thumbs trail down the inside of her thighs, burning hot tracks down the skin there.

At last, he seemed to stare right at her sex, still clothed in pink lace. As if evoked by his gaze, a rush of wet heat dampened her panties.

Then he met her eye. “I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I do you.”

“You can hardly help it. I’m a
vila
. I can make anyone want me.”

He shook his head, stroking her through lace. “I don’t just want you when you use your siren voice or turn sparkly. I want plain old Anya.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, hammering blood through her veins to all her most sensitive parts. And yet with what he’d told her about Polina, how could she believe a line like that?

“Maybe it’s because you don’t think I’ll be around to bug you for long.”

His face twisted, and she regretted the words--the sort of barb that always infuriated her parents. What was wrong with her? He wanted her right now, and it was more than Demyan ever had. Sergey was full of praise with no conditions, no buts attached.

And yet what he offered left her wanting more. To have captured his interest was flattering, a balm on her ego. She ought to have been thrilled. And yet some greedy part of her said it wasn’t enough. That lonely, misfit spot in her that Demyan had only magnified cried out for love, not just desire. And at moments during their day, she’d thought she felt what that love might be like.

But he was determined to love someone else. Who could blame him? Anya was dead, a ghost, couldn’t even keep her own skin without his hand on her. Not exactly a candidate for his sixteen-month plan for settling down.

“Anya.” With their legs intertwined, he could cross both his thickly muscled arms over his chest. She turned her face away to look at a painting of a river reflecting autumn leaves. Of course.

She’d been a fool to let herself hope for anything more than freedom from her slipper.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one seeing Polina.”

Cringing, he pulled a fistful of his short hair. “I made her up.”

“What?” She wouldn’t have thought him capable of a lie like that. What would be the point?

“I mean, I know her, but there’s nothing between us. I made it up to spare your feelings when I thought… Look, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is I like you. I have all along. I just didn’t think this was a good idea.”

After everything Demyan had promised her, a lie like that was a bitter pill to choke down. It seemed very likely Polina would get the part of Giselle in the end. Sergey’s deception--or was it a confession--knit knots along her spine and incited the
vila
into her rage, kicking up a little wind devil in the corner that knocked over a waste can.

He cast the disturbance a wary look, the face of a man conscious he was about to lose control of the situation. She tamped down on the anger.

“Why, exactly, did you lie?”

His throat rippled with a swallow. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t attracted to you, when clearly”--he waved a hand at his torso, where the outline of his erection could not be missed--“I am.”

“You thought it was a bad idea, but not anymore.”

“Honestly, now the liking far outweighs the good judgment about how to conduct myself with a ghost.”

She braced herself for one of his effortlessly charming smiles, but instead, his astonishingly wise eyes held hers, full of earnest hope.

“Oh.” Her heart started pounding against her sternum. Stupid, weak thing. She’d tried so hard to protect it, and yet somehow he’d snuck inside.

“I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you Demyan and free of your slipper, so you can do your whole
vila
thing.”

She inhaled a deep breath. That promise definitely soothed the sting of the whole Polina story, even if she might have liked an ending that included her. But the
vila
fanned the lingering hurt, heating it until it flared. “Sergey, I really don’t like being lied to.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his regret striking her like a blow. “I understand, really. But please, just trust me a little longer, until you’re safe.”

“I do. I just…”

Trust me. Stas had said that to her every time she’d pressed him for more, stringing her along instead of telling her she would never be good enough for him.

But Sergey was so different from Stas. “Okay, yes. I will trust you. Can we get back to the whole you-want-me-more-than-anyone-else part?”

He took her in his arms, and the
vila
inside her stilled. Anya couldn’t blame the old girl. She melted into him, craving more of the molten sensation between her legs, dying to know how his entering her would change it, stoke it, soothe it. She was damn glad she and her rowdy little wind nymph were on the same page about priorities.

She reached between them and unhooked his belt, his fly, shoved his jeans down. She found his shaft. He hissed when she encased him in her fingers, just as she gasped at the contrast of his soft skin stretched taut over that shockingly rigid erection. What she’d felt through his clothing hadn’t compared.

She’d heard a few of the lazier dancers--the ones with boyfriends--complain that a penis could be too big for a petite ballerina’s body. Sergey seemed enormous; her hand barely ringed his girth. Perhaps she should be scared, but she was only fascinated. She stroked him, feeling the way his skin moved over the length.

As her fingers brushed over the tip, he sucked in a breath. She glanced up to see him grinning his effortlessly charming smile, like he knew his erection was a thing of beauty.