however, had already slipped away.
Chapter Six
Dima used a paring knife to chop and slice herbs for an omelet. That done, he rinsed the blade and proceeded to cut the fruit, but the steady thwack of blade couldn’t dim his tension. By the time Lizzie deigned to wake up, he had mounded a too-large pile of diced strawberries at the end of the cutting board.
He was still lost in his own head. In the memories. In the still-wants that plagued him.
She walked out of her bedroom, hair tousled and falling over her face. Scrubbing a palm across sleepy eyes lifted the hem of her oversized Rangers T-shirt. She was a huge hockey fan, to the point of frustration if being on tour meant missing a game. The sport had been one of their early connections, when he’d been new to the US and confounded by its many differences. Hurling English and Russian obscenities across the ice had cemented their friendship outside of the rehearsal room.
Underneath the shirt, she wore only a pair of dark red tap pants. He’d admired the differences in her body last night. Six months ago, she had been competition skinny. Women on the circuit were sticklers about their weight, while trying to maintain the muscle tone required for the grueling demands of dance. Those whose figures more resembled Lizzie’s petite, ripe curves worked even harder to stay thin.
During physical therapy, she had gained something like ten pounds of muscle. She’d been powerful beneath his hands and there, in the light of morning with that shirt lifted to a tempting height, she looked it. As lush as ever, but with more shapely muscles.
This glance reminded him that she’d worn pajama pants around the house since her return, practically hiding from him.
She wasn’t hiding from him anymore.
Those dark red tap pants snugged against the dip of her pussy. The same pussy he’d licked last night. She’d sucked his cock deeper than anyone ever had, man or woman.
He’d needed more, no matter that his orgasm had left him floating and dazed. No denying that. Only Lizzie’s hesitation—not wanting to compare him and Paul—had been his stop sign. His dreams had been filled with Lizzie and Paul, both of them twined together. They were inexplicable fantasies, considering how many of his desires started and ended with her. If Paul was going to be involved, he would be on Dima’s terms.
“Are you hungry?” He split the egg-white omelet in half, dumped it on two plates and set it on the counter island. The strawberries went in a small bowl with a hefty spoonful of nonfat vanilla Greek yogurt.
She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth and eyed him warily. If she was worrying he was going to make a scene, she could relax. Every movement said she wanted to keep it light.
Fine with him. For the moment. She had a tendency to bolt, one way or the other. Fast decisions. Quick impulses. If he wanted Lizzie Maynes, and holy Christ he did, he would need to take it a hell of a lot slower than laying her down for another mind-blowing 69. He’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t be forced into anything. Carrying her to bed had been one of the most difficult things he’d done in a long time, but it had been the right thing. If Dima pushed too far, she’d scramble.
Which direction would he push? Where they were headed seemed dark and murky. The last thing he wanted to do was share unformed plans—just hasty desires, really—only to have them fall through.
No, that wasn’t right. The last thing he wanted was to lose this woman.
“I could eat,” she finally said. With a couple twists and a spin, she braided gold hair out of her face. Not once did she look him in the eyes. She slid onto the barstool and picked up a fork. “I don’t think I’ve ever said, but I missed your cooking when I was gone. I got tired of the salads.”
“ Spasibo. ”
He thanked her because her praise was at least something in the middle of such an uncomfortable morning.
Could’ve meant
Chapter Six
Dima used a paring knife to chop and slice herbs for an omelet. That done, he rinsed the blade and proceeded to cut the fruit, but the steady thwack of blade couldn’t dim his tension. By the time Lizzie deigned to wake up, he had mounded a too-large pile of diced strawberries at the end of the cutting board.
He was still lost in his own head. In the memories. In the still-wants that plagued him.
She walked out of her bedroom, hair tousled and falling over her face. Scrubbing a palm across sleepy eyes lifted the hem of her oversized Rangers T-shirt. She was a huge hockey fan, to the point of frustration if being on tour meant missing a game. The sport had been one of their early connections, when he’d been new to the US and confounded by its many differences. Hurling English and Russian obscenities across the ice had cemented their friendship outside of the rehearsal room.
Underneath the shirt, she wore only a pair of dark red tap pants. He’d admired the differences in her body last night. Six months ago, she had been competition skinny. Women on the circuit were sticklers about their weight, while trying to maintain the muscle tone required for the grueling demands of dance. Those whose figures more resembled Lizzie’s petite, ripe curves worked even harder to stay thin.
During physical therapy, she had gained something like ten pounds of muscle. She’d been powerful beneath his hands and there, in the light of morning with that shirt lifted to a tempting height, she looked it. As lush as ever, but with more shapely muscles.
This glance reminded him that she’d worn pajama pants around the house since her return, practically hiding from him.
She wasn’t hiding from him anymore.
Those dark red tap pants snugged against the dip of her pussy. The same pussy he’d licked last night. She’d sucked his cock deeper than anyone ever had, man or woman.
He’d needed more, no matter that his orgasm had left him floating and dazed. No denying that. Only Lizzie’s hesitation—not wanting to compare him and Paul—had been his stop sign. His dreams had been filled with Lizzie and Paul, both of them twined together. They were inexplicable fantasies, considering how many of his desires started and ended with her. If Paul was going to be involved, he would be on Dima’s terms.
“Are you hungry?” He split the egg-white omelet in half, dumped it on two plates and set it on the counter island. The strawberries went in a small bowl with a hefty spoonful of nonfat vanilla Greek yogurt.
She rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth and eyed him warily. If she was worrying he was going to make a scene, she could relax. Every movement said she wanted to keep it light.
Fine with him. For the moment. She had a tendency to bolt, one way or the other. Fast decisions. Quick impulses. If he wanted Lizzie Maynes, and holy Christ he did, he would need to take it a hell of a lot slower than laying her down for another mind-blowing 69. He’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t be forced into anything. Carrying her to bed had been one of the most difficult things he’d done in a long time, but it had been the right thing. If Dima pushed too far, she’d scramble.
Which direction would he push? Where they were headed seemed dark and murky. The last thing he wanted to do was share unformed plans—just hasty desires, really—only to have them fall through.
No, that wasn’t right. The last thing he wanted was to lose this woman.
“I could eat,” she finally said. With a couple twists and a spin, she braided gold hair out of her face. Not once did she look him in the eyes. She slid onto the barstool and picked up a fork. “I don’t think I’ve ever said, but I missed your cooking when I was gone. I got tired of the salads.”
“ Spasibo. ”
He thanked her because her praise was at least something in the middle of such an uncomfortable morning.
Could’ve meant
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