by Dylann Crush
Mark directs me to the edge of the dance floor and we start moving in time with the music. Well, to be fair, Mark’s movements are rhythmic while mine are . . . well . . . blundering prances. Melody’s always said I missed out on the musical gene. Nothing makes me feel more self-conscious than dancing.
Possibly my dance partner makes it worse.
Shuffling from foot to foot, I swing my hands. Mark watches me, his head cocked, then throws his hands over his head and dances like he’s Channing Tatum or something. All eyes divert to us. Great. As if they weren’t already scrutinizing us before.
He takes my hand and spins me around, righting me as I almost tip over. Then he steps way into my personal space and gyrates his hips like we’re screwing or something.
That’s it.
I whirl around to run away, but no such luck. Mark foils my escape by grabbing my hips, pushing down on my back so I’m bent at the waist and facing the floor. I can only imagine what he’s doing.
The crowd around us cheers at his antics. Of course they do.
Okay. I have two options. One, try to get out of his grasp somehow, slap him across his stupid hot-as-fuck face, and walk away. Or two, play along with the jerk. The way the other guests are reacting to Mark’s lewdness informs my decision—they’re enjoying the spectacle and don’t want it to end. The part of me longing for acceptance makes my decision, and I thrust my hips backward. Around us, everyone roars.
Did I really have any other choice? I probably would’ve face-planted on the floor at his feet if I tried to get away.
Mark’s hips still at my reaction, then he tugs me upright. All the blood rushes to my head and I latch onto what’s right in front of me for support. Which happens to be his biceps. His very powerful, muscular biceps.
When my vision rights, I remove my hands from his person and try to put distance between us. Some people in the crowd still watch us, but the vast majority have turned their focus elsewhere. A little late, but I’ll take it.
“Surprised me back there, Sophia.”
I shrug. “It’s what they wanted.”
He steps closer to me, his slight Russian accent adding a stupid, exciting dimension to his next words. “What I want, too.”
My dumb heart speeds up, but I shut down my traitorous body’s response. He’s a player, Sophia. “Italy’s over.”
“Or maybe it never really got started.” He swirls around me. I have to admit, his dance moves are spectacular.
As I’m stuck on the dance floor with him, I try to clap my hands in time with all the other dancers. Everyone loves Mark. I’m sure he’ll soon tire of me, like he’s done in the past. After a few beats, my eyes swing longingly toward the bar and freedom.
Enough. “Thanks for the dance.” I point to where I left Melody. “I’m going back to my friends. Happy birthday.”
Before I take one step, he grabs my wrist. “Stay with me.”
Not a question. “Yeah. No.” I try to tug away from his grip, but it’s like tinsel—impossible to break.
“Please.”
My eyes search his. What’s he playing at now? “Why?”
He pulls me into a proper dance hold. After a couple of beats, he places our entwined right hands over his chest, beneath which his heart hammers. “I like you.”
My stomach flips. Goose bumps resurface on my arms, and my feet start to move. Yet, my brain begs me to run away. Reminding him of our bungled past, I note, “Like in Italy on Doctor Manipul8?”
Mark’s hand tightens around mine. “I liked you back then, too.”
“Well, I thought so. Until you disappeared like Jacob Marley’s ghost.”
“The shoot ended.”
Like that explains everything. His intensity be damned, I’m not having any more of his lies. “Let’s keep it at that.” I pull my arms, but he counters, so we remain locked, immobile, on the dance floor.
“Listen, Sophia, I’m sorry. If it means anything, I never stopped thinking about you. And I knew we’d be working together on this upcoming movie, so I’d be able to see you again.”
“I don’t read radio silence.”
His pink tongue licks his lips and my traitorous body wants to experience it in my mouth again. I shut down these absurd thoughts with a swallow.
“You’re beautiful.”
My haywire emotions seize, and a derisive laugh escapes. “I think you need glasses.”
As his lips tick upward, he resumes our dance. His bottom lip is bigger than the top. Kissable. What?
“You’re magnificent on the outside, but I think brains are sexy.” He taps my forehead. “Super sexy.”
The way his mouth moves around his compelling words, with his accent, curls my toes. Before I can censor my thoughts, I admit, “I like your accent.”
His eyes widen. “I’ve worked hard to get rid of it, but I guess some things are just too hard.”
Hard. Damn. Why did he have to use that word? Ignoring how my body wants to test out how hard his is, I reply, “It’s just a hint. Not too strong, but definitely there to remind people you weren’t born here.”
For the first time, Mark breaks our dance hold. Stepping backward, he says, “I was raised in Connecticut, mostly.”
Something in his admission calls to me. Like it’s a defense mechanism or something. Instead of taking the opportunity to escape and return to Melody, surprising myself, I step forward and link my arms around his neck. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. You’re so lucky to have been born in another country and experienced that culture.”
He winces. “Well, the Russian culture was . . . harsh. You couldn’t always get food, and the weather really sucked.”
I play with some hair at the nape of his neck. It’s dense yet soft. Sort of like the man. “Looks like you outgrew the food issue and living in Florida gives you excellent weather almost all the time.”
He latches onto the first part of my comment. “I’ve had to work hard with my nutrition, actually. When we moved to the United States, I started overeating as a way to make up for my Ivanoff roots. I soon was a very fat teenager.”
So Ivan is a stage name. And he’s overcome weight issues. His admissions are surprising—making him more human. Maybe there’s more to this man than the gorgeous face, to-die-for bod, and ace acting chops. I force my complimentary thoughts to stop. He’s still the same manwhore he was back in Italy.
He shakes his head. “Don’t know why I told you all that.”
“I’m glad you did. Makes you a mere mortal.”
He smiles. “I think you’re a pretty nice mortal, too, Sophia.”
Warning bells go off in my head. Or are they jingle bells? In any event, I force my cheeks to inflate while moving my hands down to his shoulders to a more conventional hold. “So tell me, now that you’ve obviously conquered your weight issue, what’s next on your to do list?”
He squeezes my body to his as we continue dancing, and I focus on turning down the volume on the hum of excitement bubbling through my bloodstream. Man. Whore.
“I have a goal.” He inhales. “I want to win an Academy Award.”
Has he ever been nominated? I run through my mental rolodex and can’t come up with one. “That sounds like a very worthy goal. Think your work on Doctor Manipul8 will give you a nod? Or do you have high hopes for this new trilogy?”
“Either will be fine.”
“Well, you can’t control being nominated like you did with your weight.”
His head tilts. “That’s true. But I keep working on my craft. While I’ve been waiting to start filming this movie, I’ve been working with an acting coach. And studying other award-winning movies to see what tips I can glean.”
A nearby dancer catches my eye, and I murmur, “Like Kane Martin?” At my reference to the other actor, Mark misses a step. “Whoa, there. That was my move.”
He doesn’t crack a smile at my joke. Instead, his Adam’s apple bobs. “Kane’s the son of famous actors. He gets all the good roles and pl
ays them for all their worth.” Mark glances at his competitor. In a downbeat tone, he adds, “He just won an MTV award.”
The discouragement in his voice reaches out to me. “You’ll get there.”
“I’m working on it.” He directs me into the proper dance hold again.
During the verse, the pulse of Mark’s heart underscores the lyrics being sung. When Mr. Hunte hits the chorus, I blurt out my thoughts. “Why is winning an award so important? Most of them are just popularity contests.”
“They represent the ultimate recognition from my peers and others.” He looks away from me and I strain to hear him. “I need that.”
I sympathize with the sentiment. Isn’t that what I seek for myself and my work—a sense of belonging in the community rather than pity scholarships that foisted me into situations my family couldn’t otherwise afford.
This is a side of Mark I never knew existed. Hell, I knew he was a hot, talented actor, but I never understood the depth of his commitment to his profession. And his need for validation stemming from being an outsider, an immigrant.
I reciprocate with some of my own honesty. “I’m like you. I take as many classes as I can to improve my camera skills.”
Starting with his eyes, his entire face transforms with his smile. My breath catches at the purity, like he’s meeting a kindred spirit. To ward off the pheromones emanating from the multi-faceted man in my arms, I let my eyelids close. Which only serves to make me more aware of his virility and fluidity with dance moves. He’s starting to make me feel graceful for the first time ever. I reopen my eyes.
“Those classes sure did come in handy back in Italy.”
Mark’s reference to the events on our last movie lodge in my heart. “They did.”
He pulls me tighter against his body, and the music flows through us. As he ends the song, Mel’s dad’s voice pulls me deeper into the vortex that is Mark Ivan. Correction—Mark Ivanoff. I feel as if I’m meeting the real man behind the actor for the first time.
And I like him.
What?
Hunte transitions into their very first hit song, “Your Kiss Destroys Me,” which has a pounding—although somewhat slower—beat. In my ear, Mark murmurs, “I fear yours will destroy me, too.”
He kisses a soft spot behind my ear, and I buckle.
2
Sophia
I cling to the man holding me as he brings us to the edge of the dance floor. He’s all muscle and intensity, two characteristics I always find irresistible. Remember, Sophia, his profession made him rich—he’s come a very long way since being hungry and cold in Russia.
As we step onto the lush beige patterned carpet, Mark twirls me in his arms and, for the second time today, dips me low. “Come with me.”
He brings me to standing and hurries toward the exit. What’s going on? My feet stop. Realizing I’m not in lockstep with him, Mark returns to my side. “Sophia, you make me share things I haven’t ever told anyone before. You’re an expert behind the camera and always wear a glorious smile. I want to bottle you up and keep you for myself, but then the world would be deprived of your spirit. I want to hold onto that for a little while. To you.”
His words pinball off every single nerve ending in my body. It’s as if I’m the only woman he sees. Mark makes me feel important just for being me. Without reference to my poor upbringing or the scholarships that funded my education. The pity I’ve known all my life. “You . . .”
He places his index finger over my lips. “Shhh. Just say yes.”
“Yes.” What did I agree to?
“Follow me.”
Clearly not wanting to risk it, he takes my hand and leads me out of the ballroom. Soon, we’re down a short hallway and stand before the elevators. He presses the call button and we hop into a full cab that brings us up, up, up. After stopping at several floors, we’re the only two people left inside with several more floors to go.
“At last.” Mark takes one step toward me, and I retreat one. We repeat our steps twice more until my back hits the wall. His arms bracket me in place. “I need to do this.”
As if in slow motion, his lips make their way toward mine. Unlike our last kiss in front of everyone, this one is sweet. A careful meeting of our mouths that’s much more devastating to my sense of well-being than any other kiss I’ve ever experienced. I exert more pressure, wanting him to unleash his ardor on me—but he doesn’t.
The elevator dings and he pulls away, but not before his hand locks with mine once more. Desperate to learn about this side of the man, I squeeze his hand and walk with him down the hallway. He places a feather-light kiss on my knuckles and opens a door. Sweeping his arm in front of him, he invites me into his room. “Please.”
I amend my previous thought. This is not a room, but rather an enormous suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook downtown LA. I don’t have more than a minute to take in the living room when I’m picked up like a rag doll and brought into another room—his bedroom, complete with a massive bed, oversized dresser, flat-screen TV, and more windows overlooking the city’s twinkling lights.
“It’s beautiful up here,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t compare with you.” He sits on the bed, his legs splayed wide, directing me to stand between them.
In this position, I’m taller than he is, and take advantage by placing my hands on top of his shoulders. “Mark, you’re much different than I thought.”
“Better, I hope?” His hands skim down my body, landing on the hem of the stylish light green dress I bought specifically for this event.
“Yes.” My reply is husky. This man is unlike anyone I’ve known before. Perhaps my instincts warning me against him when we were filming in Italy were incorrect. Maybe we would’ve stayed connected during this time leading up to shooting the movie trilogy together?
My thoughts are cut off when Mark pulls my dress over my head, and it lands in a heap on the floor. I stand in front of him in my panties only, as the dress has a built-in bra. He sucks in air then leans forward and laves my nipple, causing my nerve endings to fire all at once. My hand goes around the back of his head and holds him in place.
From my chest, he tilts his head so his chin lands between my breasts. Heavy-lidded gray eyes gaze at me. “Kiss me, Sophia.”
I bend and our mouths meet again. This time, our breaths come in short pants as our lips explore the other’s. His tongue licks at my bottom lip, and I open for him. Before I become a ball of shivering excitement, I direct my hands to unbutton his shirt and open it, placing little love bites all over his hard pecs. He wiggles his shoulders and discards the material onto the floor.
Stepping back, I say, “You’re all muscle.”
Mark smiles and gets to his feet, twisting us as he does so the back of my knees are against the bed now. “And you’re soft in the right places.” He gives me a slight push.
My breathing hitches as I sit down. This man—who I used to think was a total arrogant manwhore—is seducing me with practiced ease. I’m putty in his hands. The thought halts my backward progress. Instead of lying prone on the bed, I remain sitting up.
“Mark.”
“Da.” He directs his attention to my neck, exploring with small kisses.
I push against his pecs. “What are we doing?”
His chuckle jingles throughout my body. “If you don’t know, I must be doing it wrong.”
My eyes slam shut, and I inhale his enticing scent on a deep breath. “Mark, I’m not this type of girl. I won’t be used and discarded by you or any other man.” Especially not another rich one.
“I have absolutely no intention of tossing you away, Sophia.” He nips my earlobe.
Perhaps it’s his words, or maybe how he’s assailing the shell of my ear, but I can’t think straight any longer. Mark’s enticing body calls to me and I trace the muscles down his back. His hips rotate as he places his knee on the bed next to my hip. With deliberate movements, he takes my cheeks in both of his hands and brings my f
ace to his for another scorching kiss.
I chart the bulge of his arm muscles before they wrap around my body. Pulled to him, I relish how his frame molds against mine. Our lips meet in a frenzy of excitement, and soon we’re lying side-by-side on top of the bed.
He angles his leg over mine and draws me against him. A new bulge greets my core and I let out a long moan.
He strokes my hair. “I stand corrected. I like this sound better than with the cake.” He rolls his hips, urging me to moan for him again. And I do.
“Sophia,” he rasps, kissing a pathway between my breasts toward my bellybutton. His tongue dips inside, and I can’t hold back a laugh.
He offers me a wicked grin before he does it once more. This time, however, I’m ready for him and buck my hips upward. He throws his head back and laughs. “Like that, big boy?”
“Very much, dollface.”
“Dollface? Really? What are you a gangster from the twenties?” I drop my hips to the mattress. Because I don’t know any Soviet gangsters, I say, “Try again, Mikhail Baryshnikov.”
Chuckling, he does a fifth position then—oh so fluidly—places his elbow next to my ear. Outlining my collarbone with his fingers, he suggests, “How about babylicious? Or sprinkles?” My nose scrunches up. “There’s always sexy.”
“You may call me”—I search for the best term—“boss.”
His tongue tracks the spot his fingers just did. “Okay, boss. Where would you like me to put my hand next? I have to be aware of the lighting, of course.”
I smile and nod. “Very important for you not to cast a shadow on your co-star. It’s all very strategic, you know. Cameras have to capture footage from every angle.”
He kisses my collarbone, and the tips of my toes curl. “Yes, can’t have someone’s hand blocking the shot.” He waves his at me. “So, where should this go?”
