by Alexis Daria
She almost laughed. But then he finally kissed her and she didn’t care how ludicrous this all was. She just wanted him.
His kiss was as domineering as the rest of him. His lips commanded obedience, yet his tongue soothed when his demands were met. His hands possessed her, traveling over every inch of her skin, stoking the flames and making her desperate for more of his touch.
Yes, touch me, she wanted to say. Touch me everywhere and never stop.
Whenever they came together like this, a litany of pleas and demands and requests played through Natasha’s head. But she never said them out loud. She couldn’t let him know how much she wanted him, how much she craved his touch, his attention, his . . .
Don’t go there.
She shut off her thoughts, sank into the moment with him. Her gasps matched Greta’s on screen, and she wanted to know if they’d fucked off-screen, all those years ago, but didn’t ask.
“Take these off,” he said with a growl, tugging at her sleep shorts. It took some fancy maneuvering, since they were on the sofa, but he stripped her of her shorts—and panties—in record time.
This was going faster and further than she’d expected. “What are you—” His mouth cut off her question; one fingertip stroked between her folds, and she had her answer.
Yes . . .
When he broke the kiss to let her suck in air, he whispered in her ear. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t put you to sleep?”
Kind of him to offer. Except now she didn’t feel sleepy. Sensation zinged through her body. With his thumb on her clit and two fingers plunging inside her, he played her with skill and determination. The weight of his body pressing her into the sofa anchored her in the moment, and his kisses drove all thought from her mind. Thank god.
And there was the dirty talk.
Yeah, babe. Take it. Feel it. Don’t think about anything else. You think too much. Let me make you feel good.
Were you going to touch yourself during this scene? Isn’t the real thing better than a movie? You’re living the fantasy.
You work so hard, I want to help you relax.
When she snapped at him to shut up, he only laughed and shoved her tank top up to drag his tongue over her nipples. In retaliation, she stuck her hand down his underwear and grasped his hot length, wanting to feel his hardness as she came. He groaned and doubled his efforts.
It was too much and never enough. They stripped off their remaining clothing and rolled on the sofa, naked, their sweaty skin sticking to the leather and each other, their movements knocking cushions to the floor. He was like a man possessed, obsessed with making her come, but every time she got close, he backed off. When she whimpered, he laughed and returned to the task.
Through it all, the need to have him fill her taunted her from the edges of passion. Why the hell had she told him no sex? This was everything. She begged with her whimpers, with her hand on his dick, trying to yank him closer to her slit.
The infernal man only laughed and pushed her hand away. Then he put his mouth on her and drove her even higher. With lips and tongue, he broke her apart and put her back together countless times until finally, finally, he let her explode.
The orgasm rolled through her, wiping her thoughts and satisfying everything except her need for more.
As she was coming down and thinking about how to shift her body to get his cock inside her, the end credits rolled, along with the theme song. Dimitri’s body shifted over hers and his lips touched her ear.
“You see how well I treat my houseguests?”
She froze. Wait, houseguests? Was he referring to other women? Her skin broke out in goosebumps. She pulled back and stared at him. He blinked, like he realized what he said was shitty, then covered it up with a smile and gestured at the TV.
“I mean, I can’t have ladies staying under my roof turning to cheap copies of the real thing.”
Natasha stared at him as aftershocks from her explosive orgasm ravaged her body. Her heart pounded even as her limbs chilled at his words, at his smug, self-satisfied smile. Had she heard him correctly?
Normally, an orgasmic experience like that left her boneless and sleepy. But his words elicited a bolt of adrenaline, a fight-or-flight response, and she scrambled out from underneath him. Snatching up her clothes, she blurted out, “Thanks, I think I can sleep now,” and ran naked from the room.
The shocked look on his face followed her all the way back to the guest room she dared not think of as hers.
Nothing about him or his home was hers. Playing house like this was a game to him, nothing more than a pleasant diversion. She was one of many. Maybe he’d even done this before—helped a desperate woman by letting her stay with him. Her heart would be ruined if she ever allowed herself to expect anything more from him. She couldn’t read any deeper meaning into his actions, no matter how caring he seemed at times.
Beyond an easy screw, he didn’t care about her. He never would.
It was her mother all over again. Every time she thought she was getting closer, catching a glimpse of real emotional connection, it was snatched away from her, and she was reminded of the truth.
She just wasn’t good enough.
After pulling her pajamas back on, Natasha climbed underneath the covers again. Tonight sealed the deal. No sex, and she must avoid him at all costs.
12
It started with a bra.
Just one bra. Not even a super expensive one, because even after the boob job, Natasha was still only a C-cup.
“You should buy it,” Lori said, peeking past the curtain into Natasha’s dressing room. “It’s pretty.”
Natasha turned in the mirror, checking herself out from multiple angles. The lacy black demi-cup was pretty, and her cleavage looked phenomenal. Just wearing it made her feel better about life.
And, okay, she wondered what Dimitri would think of it, too. Her plan to avoid him was a success, and she hadn’t seen him in three days. What she hadn’t counted on was her own desire for him. She missed his dark scowl and flashing grin, the woodsy, citrusy scent of his cologne, even his corny jokes. But especially his touch. Damn him.
She’d almost given in. But he’d reminded her why she needed to keep her distance, and it wasn’t just because her job was now at stake.
Although that was a big fucking reason to keep her panties on, and her ass in her own bed.
Not her own bed. It wasn’t hers. Nik’s bed. Shit, that sounded worse. The guest bed. She was a guest. Sort of.
Not quite guest. Not quite roommate. Definitely not girlfriend.
“I would buy it, if I had boobs,” Lori added. She glanced down at her chest. “It’s okay, though. It’s easier to breakdance without them. And besides, our costume designers are experts at padding.”
“That’s why I got small implants.” Natasha adjusted the straps on the black bra, looking for a reason to leave it behind. Nope, the damn thing fit perfectly.
Lori snickered. “For breakdancing?”
“No, that’s all you, girl.” Natasha pulled on the tank top provided by the store to see how the bra looked under fabric. Still looked fantastic. “I got them for me, because I wanted them, and because I’m never going back to ballet.”
“Why not?”
Natasha shrugged and took the shirt off. “I’m twenty-seven already. That’s like sixty-seven in ballerina years, and anyway, I prefer ballroom dancing as a career. And if I got implants any bigger than these—” she poked her chest, “—they wouldn’t look right on my body.”
“Makes sense.” Lori ducked out while Natasha changed back into the bra and shirt she’d worn into the store. “Are you going to buy it?”
Natasha stepped out of the fitting room, holding the bra in her hand. It really was pretty . . . “I’m thinking about it.”
“It looked really good on you.” Lori waved the neon green bralette she held. “You can think about it while I wait to pay.”
Shopping with Lori was a dangerous pastime. Lori
was an instigator, and Natasha didn’t need much encouragement when it came to spending money. And since she’d lost so much in the great apartment disaster, and one of her direct deposit checks had come in, it only made sense to pick up an item or two . . .
She bought the bra.
By the time they left The Grove, Natasha was weighed down with shopping bags from five different stores, and her checking account was right back where it had started. But seeing the bags filling the trunk of her car gave her a thrill. The royal blue romper looked amazing on her, and the low-heeled ankle booties fit like a dream on her poor, battered dancer’s feet.
She said goodbye to Lori in the parking lot and drove the short distance to The Dance Off’s offices. The whole way, she ran through the reasons why her purchases had been a good idea.
She’d been working hard. She deserved nice things.
She was a television celebrity in Los Angeles. She got recognized, and had an image to uphold.
After losing so many items in the ceiling leak, she needed to replenish her wardrobe.
They were the reasons she always gave herself when she splurged. She deserved, she needed, she wanted. All to shut up the voice that whispered, No necesitas eso. Vas a botar tú dinero. People like you don’t get to have things like that. You don’t have the money.
That stupid voice followed her everywhere and sounded just like her mother.
Then Kevin called. Kevin always texted, so she picked up, worried that something bad had happened. “Kev? Is everything okay?”
“Hey, Natasha,” Kevin said. “I’m cool, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Donna’s been asking around about you and Dimitri. Are you still seeing that guy?”
Crap. “I filmed some promo with him, and you know how it goes. Harmless flirting. Donna’s just digging for dirt.”
“That’s what I figured, but I still wanted to let you know.”
“I appreciate it, Kev. Talk to you later.”
“Oh, are we still on for dinner with Lori tonight?”
Damn it. Why did she keep making plans to spend money? “Sorry, I have to back out. A work gig came up.”
“Aww, we’ll miss you. Next time?”
“Sure.” They said their goodbyes and hung up, and Natasha headed straight back into The Grove and returned everything that wasn’t final sale.
She kept the bra.
She had to stop digging herself deeper into the hole. It was time to make smart financial choices. The sooner she had the money, the sooner she could get the hell out of Dimitri’s house.
No one could know she was living there. That meant saving her coins, and making dinner at home. She prayed Dimitri would be caught up at the restaurant.
13
Three days. Dimitri hadn’t seen her in three days.
He’d fucked up, and he knew it. When he’d woken up and gone to the kitchen for a glass of water, he’d seen her bedroom door open. Despite his earlier decision to give her space, he hadn’t been able to resist looking for her. Coming across her in the TV room in the dark, watching his movie, had mixed up all his emotions.
Still, after all this time, he thought of it as his movie. He’d done others since then, and it wasn’t like he’d produced or even choreographed Aliens Don’t Dance, but it was his first big role, and he still thought of it as his.
When he was younger, he thought he’d come to regret being so well-known for something he’d filmed when he was—what, twenty-two? But it had opened doors for him, gotten him out of the competition circuit and the struggle to find gigs, and thrust him into the spotlight.
He’d thought he was set. But the spotlight wasn’t enough. His star power wasn’t enough.
He’d done more shows, more movies, more cameos. But none of the roles were as big as Reygar, the character he played in Aliens Don’t Dance, and none of the movies had soared as high as that one had. And when he’d made a move for Broadway, they’d had to close the show three weeks in.
His own show. His own work, created from his heart. And it was a failure.
It had taken him years to try again, but that attempt failed, too. By that point, his star power had diminished. He had to get back into the public eye.
Joining The Dance Off had propelled him back into the spotlight. It was easy work and it paid well, but he could admit he’d become complacent there. Still, it had brought him to Natasha. Now, stuck in LA traffic in an effort to get home early enough to catch her, he had a lot of time to think about her.
Better than thinking about the past, or his future. Alex had been texting him daily, asking about his plans. Dimitri didn’t reply, because he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have any concrete plans, aside from getting through Natasha’s defenses and learning more about the woman underneath.
But first, he had to see her.
When he’d offered to let her live in his home, he’d thought having her there would bring him a greater sense of security. Ha. The woman was as elusive as a nearly forgotten memory. She was gone when he woke up, asleep when he got home. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to apologize to her for his thoughtless words, and he didn’t want to do it via text or sticky note on her bathroom mirror.
If anything, he felt even more insecure than he had before.
By the time he pulled into his driveway, he was starving. Despite being at the restaurant all day, he hadn’t eaten much. He parked in the garage, his scowl clearing when he spotted Natasha’s Prius in Nik’s spot.
She was home. And it was way too early for her to be asleep.
He crept into the house quietly, smothering the smile that threatened to take over his features. A melody of aromas greeted him, along with Spanish music playing loudly in the kitchen. As he got closer, he could hear Natasha singing along, off-key.
He lost the battle against his grin. She was fucking adorable. And the music provided the perfect opportunity.
Every time they danced, their connection deepened, strengthened. Neither of them could deny it, just as she could never pass up the chance to dance with him. Whenever he offered his hand, she went willingly, holding nothing back.
It was the only time she didn’t hold back. Even during sex, as open and giving as she was, she avoided his gaze. She expressed herself through cries and moans, yet hoarded her words.
It was hard not to take it personally. But he kept trying.
He lurked in the doorway, watching her cook. She stirred something in a large pan, humming along with the lyrics. Her hips swayed, and her bare feet shuffled in a salsa step.
The chorus started. Dimitri advanced. With one hand, he cupped her hip. With the other, he wrapped his fingers around the wooden spoon before she dropped it.
She opened her mouth, maybe to protest, but he nudged her into a close salsa step, New York style. As they shifted back and forth on the tiny rug in front of the oven, he caught her gaze, let her see how much he wanted her.
Her expression softened; her dark, sexy eyes going liquid behind her glasses, her full, wide lips parting.
Keeping his eyes on hers, he directed the spoon—still clasped in her hand—to his mouth and licked it.
She blinked, desire sparking in her eyes. “Sancocho,” she whispered.
Whatever that was, it was delicious. Flavorful and full of spice. His stomach reminded him of its hunger, but he had a stronger need at this point. He tossed the spoon into the sink and swept her up in the dance.
Magic. As always, it was magic. She anticipated his every move as if they had a telepathic connection. No hesitation, no lag time. No thinking. Just feeling, just bodies, just movement. She was living fire in his arms. The music soared around them, flowed through them. The bubbling pot on the stove surrounded them in aromas that made his mouth water, but underlying the scent of sancocho was Natasha’s own fig and ginger combo. He pulled her in close, breathing in the scent of her hair—pulled up in a curly bun—and she writhed against him.
The song ended. He’d backed her up against the count
er, their faces close.
She ducked her head, but he caught the smile curving her lips. “Um, I have to stir,” she said, but she didn’t pull away.
Swallowing hard, he released her, then spotted the open bottle of red wine on the counter with one glass next to it.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, nodding at the bottle. “I had kind of a rough day.”
“I don’t. But you didn’t pour me a glass.” He took one down from the cabinet.
She cut him a look. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”
Tension thickened, pressing against his skin. She turned back to the stove, but he didn’t want to let it drop. She thought of his house as home? Good. Something to exploit.
He poured himself a glass and topped off hers. “I’ve had some late nights at the restaurant.”
“Putting out fires?”
He sighed. “Literal and figurative.”
She took the glass he gave her and clinked it against his. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Today wasn’t bad. I was meeting with my lawyer most of the day. Not as much drama with him, if you can believe it.” He sipped, savoring the fruity, herbal flavor, knowing that if he kissed her right now he’d taste it on her tongue, too. “Tell me about your day.”
She rolled her eyes and knocked back a long swallow of wine. “I got a call from Kevin about my producer, Donna. Apparently she’s asking about us, thanks to your little show the other day.”
Uh-oh, work stuff. He could already feel Natasha closing off. “Is that why you’re making comfort food?”
She gave him a surprised smile. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I also turn to food from home when I’m stressed. There are a few items on the restaurant’s menu that are specifically for when I need Ukrainian comfort food. Reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen.”
She smiled as she sliced green plantains. “My great-grandmother taught me to cook Puerto Rican food. My mom was always too busy.”
“Your great-grandmother?” He settled against the counter and drank his wine. “What happened to your grandmother?”
