Lead and Follow by Katie Porter Page B

anything, though. Her mom didn’t cook. Ballerinas were a whole other breed of dancer. In order to maintain her figure career after retirement, the woman pretty much only ate lettuce. She judged Lizzie rather too harshly for having any appetite. Dima only smiled as she savored the ham-and-herb omelet. He liked her appetites. All of them. Especially the ferocious way she’d outright appreciated the feel of his dick pulsing down her throat. Every moan still reverberated through his body like a caress.
    Dark thoughts flooded in behind the flash of visceral memory. Had any other woman been stretched out beneath him last night, his morning would be entirely different. He’d have kissed Lizzie immediately, for one thing. None of this dancing around, and none of this wondering whether he should even give his customary greeting.
    Screw it. He’d be no lesser version of himself. Having her meant keeping what he valued in their relationship.
    He tilted her face up. Her forehead was cool beneath his lips, and he lingered longer than he ever had. “I didn’t say good morning. Dobroe utro , little one.”
    Her throat worked over a swallow. The fork clattered against the side of the plate. Eyes lit by streamers of sunlight met his. For once, he couldn’t read a damn thing. Pleased, regretful, confused—she could’ve felt anything. Or everything. He could relate.
    “Morning,” she whispered.
    “Did you sleep well?”
    He sat beside her. Keeping calm as he dished fruit onto his plate was difficult. He wanted to paint patterns on her skin with the yogurt and use his tongue to lick her clean.
    She pushed a bite of egg around her plate. “Fine.”
    “What are your plans for the day?”
    “I’ve got a physical therapy appointment this afternoon. Nothing in the morning. Why?”
    He leaned an elbow on the counter and turned to frame her within his open knees. Being so near without touching her should have been normal. Without choreography to follow, they generally maintained a friendly yet familiar distance.
    Generally.
    Sometimes they’d indulged in more intimate contact out of necessity. Touchstones. Competition did funny things to a brain. He couldn’t imagine how solo athletes managed. Even if Dima couldn’t reveal many of his thoughts, he’d always had that special woman beside him to share each experience—bitching about the judges and being disappointed by small crowds. That meant having the best partner in the world to share in joint triumphs. That meant feeling free to steady both their nerves by touching her lower back just before the opening four-count. And that meant morning kisses and kisses for luck.
    After having tasted her, and after having accepted and returned more eager, demanding kisses, he couldn’t help but want more.
    “Come to practice with me this morning.”
    She turned away with a little huff of annoyance. “So I can watch you spin Jeanne around the room while I sit in the corner?” The look she shot from the corner of her eyes was as sly as anything he’d ever seen. And Russians knew sly. “What did you say to sitting in the corner while I was busy with Paul? No, thank you?”
    She twirled her index finger through hair that looked like spun sugar. Fine and silken and so golden pale. He loved it, especially unbound. She’d complained endlessly at having to slick it down with five types of product for competitions and exhibitions. Silently, he’d hated it too.
    “So. Moping around the flat, this is a better idea?”
    She stabbed a strawberry. Her mouth bent upside down with her pout. He had the overwhelming urge to take her lower lip between his teeth. “I’m not moping.”
    “I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge, little one. I hope this isn’t a sign of the future.”
    Inadvertently voicing one of his deepest fears, that she really was a different woman—less certain, less optimistic—made him face his own plate of food.
    “There’s no challenge in watching you