by Alexis Daria
She gestured toward the door to her room, which she had shut to limit the amount of dust in the rest of the apartment. “I’m not. Go look in my bedroom.”
He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “My favorite place.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Just go look.” She kept her gaze averted as he opened her bedroom door and went in. The man had a fantastic ass, but now was not the time to admire it. Flustered by his sudden appearance and uncharacteristic concern, she turned the vacuum back on and ran it over the carpet again, just to have something to do.
A few moments later, he walked back into the living room. At his pointed look, she shut the vacuum off so she could hear him.
“Your bathroom ceiling is gone.”
“Yes, thank you. I noticed.”
He didn’t comment on the heavy sarcasm in her tone. “What about Gina’s room? Can’t you stay in there while it’s being fixed?”
Natasha exhaled slowly through her nose and prayed for patience. “Like I said on the phone, there’s some kind of infestation in the building. I have to leave.”
He glanced around, like the chaos in the apartment suddenly made more sense. “That’s not good.”
No shit, Sherlock. She shoved the vacuum into the corner with more force than necessary. “What are you even doing here, Dimitri? I have a lot to do, and I’m exhausted.”
He quit his perusal of the room and gave her a wide grin. “I came to help.”
She stared at him. “Help with what?”
He propped his hands on his lean hips. “Whatever you need. Packing stuff, moving stuff. Just tell me where to bring it.”
Her chest tightened at the direct question, the one that had been on her mind since Manny delivered the news. “I . . . I don’t know.”
His brows creased. “What do you mean? Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know!” She gestured wildly at the mess around her as the words came tumbling out, powered by stress and anxiety. “I’m screwed. I can’t live here, but I don’t have the time or money to stay in a hotel or search for another apartment. And if I can’t figure it out, I’ll have to quit The Dance Off and go back home to the Bronx to live with my mother. So, while I appreciate the offer, unless you can snap your fingers and conjure up a place for me to live in the next few hours, there’s nothing you can do to help.”
He laughed. The motherfucker actually had the nerve to laugh. She rolled her eyes and wound the vacuum cord in its holder.
“Tasha.”
She suppressed her annoyance. “What?”
“Is that all you need? A place to stay?”
Is that all? What an ass. “Yeah, that’s what I need.”
“You can stay with me.”
Natasha went still, her hand still on the cord. “What did you say?”
“I said, you can stay with me, at my place.”
He couldn’t be serious. Stay with Dimitri? It was a recipe for disaster. But where else could she go? She swallowed hard and shut her eyes. “Do you mean that?”
“Would I offer if I didn’t?”
He wouldn’t. He was an asshole most of the time, but he meant what he said. She straightened, biting her lip, and thought it over. On the one hand, it was an easy solution. If she let the building keep her deposit, she wouldn’t have to pay for storage for her furniture. Staying with Dimitri would be a hell of a lot cheaper than a hotel or moving into the first open apartment she could find. She could save money, and take her time finding a new place.
Not too much time, though. Dimitri was bad for her. He tempted her like no other man ever had, and her inability to say no to him sabotaged her best efforts at being a responsible adult. Just last night, she’d settled into bed early to make sure she was on time for her new job leading an early morning spin class. She was reading a book when Dimitri texted. A booty call. She knew it for what it was. And still, she got out of bed, put her contacts back in, slipped into something sexy, and drove to his apartment. The sex was great—it always was—but she’d fallen asleep in his bed and woken up too late that morning to run home to change. She’d had to teach a spin class in lace panties, which she would not recommend anyone do, ever.
And he would never give her more than that. He was up front about his womanizing and douchebaggery. He’d once told her to call first before coming over, to make sure he was alone. So, while she didn’t expect more from him, damn it, sometimes she wanted more. She didn’t know what that might be, exactly, but something that hinted at a greater depth of feeling, something she could hold close when she was alone at night, to remind herself that she mattered to someone.
Too bad she was an idiot who had the bad habit of wanting more from the people least likely to give it.
She couldn’t tell him any of that. Every time she’d tried to wiggle out of his propositions, he turned on the charm, wooing her with that deep, deliciously accented voice, that hot, lush mouth, and those hands that knew her body inside and out.
She licked her lips and voiced the one concern that might make him reconsider. “It’s a conflict of interest. You’re one of The Dance Off judges. I’m one of the dancers.”
He waved away her objection. “No one cares about that. Besides, we’re not even filming right now. Who’s going to know?”
Natasha didn’t have his confidence. Being on a reality TV show was a lot like high school. No secrets, and everyone was messing around with each other. Dimitri wasn’t the only person on the cast she’d slept with, and he wouldn’t be the last, but there was a difference between hooking up and living together.
She tossed out another question, mostly to see what he’d say. “What about all the other women you bring home?”
He snorted out a laugh. “I’m sure they won’t mind sharing my bed with you.”
“I didn’t say I would be sharing your bed, either.” God, that would be too much like moving in with him, as opposed to using his house as a temporary living space while she got her shit sorted out.
“Why not?” At her withering glare, he held up his hands. “All right, all right. You can take the guest room.”
Not the answer she was looking for. He hadn’t said, Of course I won’t bring any other women home while you’re staying there. Still, she wasn’t likely to receive any other offers tonight, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, it was only temporary.
“Okay.” She ignored his beaming smile and held up a finger. “On one condition.”
He shrugged, his arrogant confidence both infuriating and sexy. “Whatever you want.”
Her pulse beat faster in her throat. She couldn’t believe she was going to say this to him, but it was necessary, both for her career and her emotional well-being. If she were going to live with him, she needed boundaries.
“No sex.”
His expressive brows shot up. “What?”
“No sex. Not while I’m living with you. I mean, staying with you. Temporarily.”
His jaw worked as he considered her words, then he shrugged. “Sure.”
His agreement came too quickly, and it wasn’t like him not to argue, but she had no other options.
True to his word, he helped her finish packing up the apartment. Even though he made a show of digging through her lingerie drawer and waving her lacy underthings in the air, the task was faster and less stressful with him around. Dimitri ran to the hardware store for supplies, they sealed the furniture in plastic, and finally, there was nothing left to do but drive to his place in Beverly Hills.
This was a setback, but she would get through it. All she had to do was make it to the end of the summer, save money, and then find a new apartment before the next season of The Dance Off started filming.
She’d prove she could do this on her own. And try her damnedest to protect her heart in the process.
3
Dimitri had driven over to Natasha’s with the intention of calming her down and trying to be of help. And yeah, also because he wanted to see her
. He’d never heard her sound as out of sorts as she’d been on the phone, and it worried him. Tasha was always cool as a cucumber, and even harder to read. Seeing her with red-rimmed eyes, and her tawny brown cheeks pale with fatigue, had him on the verge of panic. When she’d gone down worst-case-scenario-road to moving back to New York, he’d blurted out his offer. It had surprised him—and her, too, if her wide eyes were any indication—but now that it was out, it seemed like a good idea. A great idea. The best idea, even.
Anyway, it made sense. Nikolai had moved out a few months ago, his room sitting vacant, yet still fully furnished. The house echoed with the quiet left by his younger brother’s absence. After growing up surrounded by relatives, living alone bugged the hell out of him.
More, he liked having Natasha in his space. She never stayed long—even when she spent the night, as she had last night—and she never left a trace, but each time, she left him wanting more.
Sometimes the depth of his want for her scared him, and he ran in the other direction. Weeks or months would pass before he called her again.
And he always called her. She never reached out to him.
Other times, that desire for her made him want to chase her down. He’d invite her over for a weekend, or claim to be in her neighborhood, or go to a club where he knew she’d be.
When he asked, she always said yes. But he always had to do the asking. She never sought him out, never pursued him. Yet she was always there when he wanted her.
They both slept with other people, too. It was part of this casual, no-commitment thing they had going on. It sucked, but it was the cycle they were locked in, and he hadn’t been able to see a way out.
And he didn’t like to be alone.
Now, he solved two problems. The chance to develop a new dynamic with Natasha, and someone to fill the empty space in his home.
The perfect solution.
Except . . .
She’d said no sex.
If he put himself in her shoes, he understood where the stipulation came from. He was a judge. It might not look good if the showrunners knew they were living together. But it was the off-season. No big deal. No one would know.
Despite his easy agreement, they were kidding themselves. They couldn’t stay away from each other. It was only a matter of time.
He turned the Porsche down his street, quiet and lined with tall palm trees, then pulled into the curving driveway. Damn, he still had to fix the gate. It was something he could have had his assistant do, if he hadn’t fired the guy.
At the end of the drive, Dimitri clicked the remote for the garage, pausing while the door raised. The exterior of the sprawling one-story was more Spanish style than he preferred, having grown up in Brooklyn, but the red clay roof tiles and white stucco were growing on him. Behind him, Natasha parked in the driveway, like she usually did. But when he got out, he grabbed one of the other remotes and opened the middle spot, which had been Nik’s, indicating she should park there. His BMW X3 SUV occupied the third spot.
He opened her door when she shut the car off, and offered her a hand to step out. She took the assistance, but behind her glasses, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes held wariness, like she didn’t trust his help. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt, but he didn’t comment on it. It was time he came to terms with the fact that he hadn’t done enough to earn her trust. Moving her into his home afforded him the perfect opportunity to gauge her feelings, to test if she wanted more.
“New car?” he asked, eying the Prius.
She sighed, giving the vehicle a sideways glance. “Yeah. New car.”
“That’s exciting.”
“More like unexpected and expensive.”
She opened the trunk and together they collected her meager belongings to carry into the house. She’d had to leave a lot behind, sealed airtight, and some of it had been dropped off at the dry cleaners on the way to his house.
At the threshold between the garage and the house, she paused and cleared her throat. “You said you had a spare bedroom?”
He wanted her in his bed, like always, but he was willing to play this out. “Yeah, this way.”
At Nik’s door, she pulled back, brow creased. “Isn’t this your brother’s room?”
“It was.” He pushed the door open and carried her bags inside, where he set them in a line under the window. “He got a spot on the national tour of that Seize the Night musical and moved out a few months ago. Says he’ll get his own place when it’s over.” It made sense, but Dimitri couldn’t help but feel like Nikolai was leaving him behind, a betrayal of sorts. He gestured around the room. “Some of Nik’s stuff is still in the closet, but there should be space for you to hang things up, and I think the drawers are empty.”
“Thanks.” She lingered in the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” Her hesitation jabbed at his nerves, made his voice sharp. “Are you a vampire? Waiting for an invitation? Come in.”
Her lips flattened into a line and she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. With a deliberate step, she entered the room and dumped her belongings on top of the now-bare dresser. “Better?” she snapped.
It wasn’t, but he liked the bite in her voice. It was better than the cool, reserved demeanor she usually showed him, or the frantic worry when he’d called her earlier. And while he didn’t like settling her in here, it didn’t matter where her stuff was. Sooner or later, she’d be back in his bed. And maybe this time, she’d stay.
“Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”
“A tour?” She turned away from where she had started to line up a series of bottles on the dresser, eyes wide and tone incredulous.
“Yeah. I’ll show you the rest of the house.” He took her hand and pulled her from the room. She didn’t resist, but the stunned look didn’t leave her face.
“Macho.”
He stopped at the sound of his nickname on her lips. He loved that she had one for him, something she didn’t call anyone else.
She stared at him like he was crazy. “I’ve been here before. I was here yesterday, in fact. I don’t need a tour.”
“That was different,” he said. “That’s when you were just—”
Her eyebrows shot up and she crossed her arms. “When I was just what?”
He was digging a hole for himself, but he couldn’t stop his mouth. “You were just going to my bedroom.” And the sofa. And the dining table. And the pool—“There are some rooms you haven’t seen. I want you to feel at home here.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she went with him.
He pointed out the hall bathroom, which would be hers to use. Then the kitchen, gym, TV lounge, and his office, which also held a small pullout sofa.
When he opened the office door, he spotted a short stack of papers on his desk and paused.
Shit. His contract for The Dance Off. He hadn’t signed it yet, hadn’t decided if he was going to or not. Now that he’d seen it, the pressure to sign weighed on him, like the contract was staring at him. Sign me, it said. Give up on your dreams. You know they aren’t going anywhere. Might as well sign me.
He couldn’t take it another second. Before ducking back out of the office, he said, “Gimme a sec,” and stalked into the room to flip the papers over. When he came back and shut the door behind him, Natasha gave him a quizzical look that bordered on hurt.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to go into your office,” she said in a quiet voice.
“That’s not—” Crap, he’d made her think he had something he didn’t want her to see. “I know. But you can. It’s okay.” He was making a mess of this. He had to get her to the next room before he made it worse. “Anyway, there’s something else I want you to see. You’re going to like this.”
“You better not turn around with your dick hanging out,” she muttered as she followed him down the hall.
He barked out a surprised laugh, and leered at her over his shoulder. “Don’t give me any ideas.”
Her snicker eased the tightnes
s in his shoulders.
“Here we are.” He opened the door with a flourish, stepping back so she could get a good look inside.
The expression on her face made up for all the awkwardness of their tour. Dark eyes rounded, those pretty lips parted in awe, she entered the room on her own and turned in a circle to take it all in.
“You have a private dance studio?” The wonder in her voice warmed him, and he followed her in.
“Of course.” He grinned, checking out their reflections in the wall of mirrors. “Doesn’t everybody?”
She shot him a smirk, and he moved closer. “You can use this anytime you want.”
“Thank you.” She ran her hand along the barre on the opposite wall. “I will.”
Without a word, he took her hand from the polished wood and pulled her into a spin. She followed his lead, as she always did. When they danced, nothing stood between them. He led, she followed, and he lost track of everything but the movement of her body and keeping them in flow. He’d danced with countless women over the course of his career, but never anyone like her. She was the best, and she got him like no one else did. Ever since that first time, when she’d walked into his rehearsal room by accident and he’d pulled her in to try out the number he was choreographing, he’d known.
He wanted to dance with her forever.
Before he could approach her about that, he had to get her past this “no sex” rule. It was ridiculous. They’d been together on and off for three years. They needed to move forward, not backward.
When he tugged her back into his arms, she landed against him with her hand on his chest. With one hand on her back and her body pressed to his, he caught the undulation of her spine as she finished the move. It was part of the dance, sure, but he knew her movements and her body well enough to catch the telltale extras. The slight arch of her back, the short thrust of her hips, the sharp intake of breath bordering on a moan.
She was turned on.
His body pulsed and hardened. He slid his hand up between her shoulder blades and tilted his head down.
