Dance with Me

by Alexis Daria

  But she couldn’t tell Esmeralda the truth. The woman would go nuts, shouting at her about her life choices, with a strong, underlying current of I told you so. She’d been saying it Natasha’s whole life, ever since she’d shown a natural aptitude for dance and an interest in pursuing it.

  You’ll never make it as a dancer.

  She had, though. She’d gotten jobs as a working dancer on not one, but two major network TV shows. The Dance Off was always in the ratings top ten, and before that, she’d been on Everybody Dance Now. While The Dance Off paired professional dancers with celebrity partners, Everybody focused on pairing dancers from different backgrounds and styles. After Natasha and Gina moved to LA, Gina had gotten them an audition, and they’d joined Everybody Dance Now together.

  Natasha made enough to live in Los Angeles, where she enjoyed more luxury than she ever had while growing up in the Bronx in a two-bedroom apartment occupied by two old people and a teenage mother whose daughter slept in a partitioned-off area of the living room.

  She’d come a long way. Being able to afford a good apartment on her own was going to be the final step. Except now it was ruined.

  If only she’d saved more . . .

  If only she’d put off paying down her credit cards and canceling them . . .

  If only the car hadn’t died right when it did, forcing her to buy a new one . . .

  If only the ceiling hadn’t fallen in, or the building not been infested with bed bugs . . .

  Any one of those things, if removed from the equation, would have left her stable. Secure. Able to cling to the outward signs of success. But all of them combined?

  All combined, the events of the last couple months had reduced her to living in the spare bedroom of a man she couldn’t even call a friend, with only a pile of tank tops, yoga pants, and denim shorts. At least Los Angeles weather was predictable enough in summer that she didn’t need much.

  Maybe it was better this way. If she didn’t have access to her killer wardrobe, she’d be less tempted to go out partying, which she couldn’t afford to do anyway. And besides, she didn’t have the time. She’d lost track of how many gigs she was working now, teaching classes at various gyms and dance schools, from spin to pole-dance, from elderly aerobics to kiddie ballet. Her schedule was nuts.

  One thing was for certain: Esmeralda could not find out she was living with Dimitri.

  When her phone buzzed again, Natasha checked it with dread. But it wasn’t her mother calling back to berate her about who knows what. It was a group text from Kevin Ray and Lori Kim, two other pros from The Dance Off.

  Lori texted first. Yooooo let’s go to Club Picante, y’all! Followed by the dancing lady emoji.

  Kevin’s reply flashed on the screen. I’m down!

  A wave of longing threatened to swamp her. Natasha wanted to say yes, to go out drinking and dancing with her friends. Kevin and Lori were a blast, and since Gina moved out, Natasha had been spending way too much time alone. She wasn’t used to it.

  But it was time to act like a responsible adult.

  Before she could answer, Lori’s next text popped up. Pre-game drinks at Natasha’s?

  Oh, hell no. They couldn’t know she was staying here, either. Not only would it be dangerous for her job, but then they would know about her utter failure to take care of herself. No one needed to know she was desperate enough to room with Dimitri.

  Besides, Kevin didn’t like Dimitri. His green eyes narrowed whenever they were out partying and Dimitri showed up to sweep her away. It wasn’t jealousy—Kevin had never shown the slightest bit of sexual interest in her—but the times she got drunk and whined about Dimitri’s lack of commitment, Kevin spent the rest of the night scowling.

  She quickly typed a reply. Sorry, guys. Not tonight. Got work early tomorrow.

  Before she could see their answers, she put her phone on silent and practically threw it onto the bedside table.

  The ereader had shut off while she was texting. She set it aside, as well. Reading had lost its appeal.

  She settled back into the pillows, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling in the dark. Temporary. This was only temporary. She’d swear Dimitri to secrecy, and uphold her one condition. Then she’d get back on her feet, back in her own place, back to being a success. No one had to know about this little lapse.

  No one would know she was a failure.

  5

  The next morning, Natasha woke to a text from the owners of the West Hollywood branch of Spin Cycle, where she taught an early morning spin class that paired shouted positive affirmations with rocking club beats. There was a gas leak on the block, and the building was closed.

  With her first gig of the day canceled, Natasha closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow.

  And couldn’t go back to sleep. Her body tensed, ears pitched to pick up any sounds of movement from the rest of the house. She rolled over in the bed that didn’t feel or smell like hers, mildly surprised Dimitri hadn’t crept under the covers with her in the middle of the night. She hadn’t heard him come home last night—home, as in his home, not hers—and she knew from nights spent with him that he wasn’t an early riser.

  Worse, she had to pee. But what if he was up, and she ran into him in the hallway? She’d done the awkward morning thing with him plenty of times before—so many times, in fact, it was no longer quite so awkward to grab a spare toothbrush from under the sink—but this was different.

  The reality of staying in Dimitri’s home as a guest sank in with stunning clarity. There was no way this wasn’t going to be weird. She just had to suck it up before her bladder burst.

  She slid out of the bed, feeling for her chanclas before remembering she’d thrown them out. Their rubber soles meant they couldn’t go through the dryer on hot. She needed a new pair of slippers.

  Barefoot, then. She tiptoed to the door and eased it open. At the entrance to the hallway bathroom, she paused to eye Dimitri’s bedroom door, which was half-open. She swallowed, debating whether it was better to go about her business quietly, or shut his door so she didn’t wake him. The carpet under her feet was thick and plush, completely unlike the scarred hardwood floors in the old prewar apartment where she’d grown up. By the time she was eighteen, she’d known every creak and crack in her great-grandparents’ home.

  This was a fairly new house in Beverly Hills. She could take a chance.

  She reached his room without making a sound, but standing in Dimitri’s doorway afforded her a perfect view of the man himself sprawled in the enormous California King-sized bed she knew so well. His wide chest was bared to the edge of his ribcage, where the blankets covered the rest of the goods. Thick arms wrapped around a squishy pillow, his face hidden in its folds. The scent of his cologne, something woodsy undercut with citrus, beckoned her in.

  Natasha bit her lip. The sight of him, half-dressed and twisted in the covers, sent a low thrum of pleasure vibrating through her body. The way he held the pillow was how he held her, caged in his arms, his face buried in her hair. He said the smell of her fig shampoo helped him fall asleep.

  With great care, she grasped the doorknob and pulled the door shut, blocking him from view before she did something dumb, like climb into bed with him.

  Since she had a little extra time, she took a quick shower, then carried her camera and laptop to the dance studio on the other end of the house. Yes, she should use the time to search for apartments, but her multitude of summer jobs didn’t leave her a lot of time or energy to dance for the fun of it. The spin class especially wore her out, and she couldn’t find it in her to be upset it had been canceled, even though it paid well and she needed the money.

  The studio had a couple stools in the corner, so she used them as tables to set up her equipment. Both the camera and laptop had been splurges, which she’d just finished paying off a month earlier, but they allowed her to film herself and edit the footage. As much as she enjoyed all the gigs she was able to take on as a dancer—from teaching cl
asses, to ensemble work on TV musicals, to her status as a pro on The Dance Off—she missed choreographing routines for real dancers.

  The Dance Off was a crapshoot. You never knew if your celeb that season was going to be up to the challenge or not. Dwayne Alonzo, her partner the previous season, was a football player with a huge fan following. As a dancer, however, he had more energy than skill, and his footwork left much to be desired. She’d choreographed routines that played to his strengths, both literal and figurative. Lots of lifts and hip action, with uncomplicated steps his big, blunt athlete’s feet could handle. They’d made it to the seventh episode before being eliminated.

  Turning athletes and actors and anyone else who fell under the umbrella of “celebrity” into dancers was a challenge, for sure, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t feeling creatively stifled.

  Since she had access to this beautiful, empty, free rehearsal space, it would be a crime not to take advantage of it.

  With the studio door shut and Dimitri dead asleep on the other end of the house, she turned on the camera and the music—a slow, haunting melody with soulful lyrics about a woman done wrong—and began to move. The music and motion, as always, swept everything else away.

  When she danced, it was the closest she came to knowing peace.

  6

  The first thing Dimitri did when he woke up was check on Natasha. He knocked softly on the closed door. When he didn’t hear a reply, an intense surge of anticipation pushed him to grasp the knob and ease it open, despite feeling like the worst kind of host.

  Anticipation deflated. In the light streaming in through the open curtains, it was clear the room was empty.

  The bed was neatly made—something Nik had never done while living here—but empty. He took a deep breath and smiled. It was already starting to smell like her perfume, something sweet with a hint of ginger.

  In the kitchen, he breathed in the aroma of freshly ground espresso beans and found a cup in the drying rack. Huh. She hadn’t made him any.

  When he checked the garage, her car was still parked inside.

  He walked back inside with a scowl on his face and his hands on his hips. Where the hell was she?

  From the other side of the house, he caught the strains of music, and grinned. Just as he’d suspected, she hadn’t been able to withstand the lure of the studio. Once a fourth bedroom, it was his favorite room in the house, though he hardly used it these days.

  He pushed open the studio door slowly and quietly. He’d have to thank Trina for keeping the hinges oiled. Not that Natasha would have heard over the music. She was fully absorbed, her eyes half-closed as she pirouetted across the floor in a pair of worn pointe shoes. Her long dark curls were tamed in a high bun, accentuating her high cheekbones and the elegant column of her neck.

  As the music soared, so did she in a series of grande jetes. Her limbs cut through the air with grace and strength, and her arabesque was a thing of beauty.

  It had been a long time, but he remembered the moves, learned at his mother’s knee in her own ballet studio in Brooklyn. He’d learned to walk, then run, then plié. Ballet had been first for him. The other styles had come later.

  In between the classical ballet moves, Natasha incorporated some hip hop and steps from Latin dances, like salsa and tango. Their fusion was seamless, and executed with mastery and emotion.

  He leaned against the doorjamb, overwhelmed by the sight of her. Natasha was always beautiful. Not just her body or her face, but the way she smiled, flirted, and sassed drove him wild. But when she danced? She awoke something in him he wasn’t ready to name. Something deep and encompassing, making him feel settled and terrified all at the same time. More than anything, though, it made him want to be with her. He couldn’t resist her when she danced.

  The song came to an end and started again. Her chest rose as she took a deep breath and launched back into the routine.

  When the song began a third time, Dimitri joined her.

  He came up behind her on bare feet and took her in his arms. She jolted and her eyes flew open wide, but she didn’t say anything. It was just like the first time they’d danced, and every other time since. He let the music flow through him, communicating to him in a way he couldn’t explain and didn’t question. And he led her in a dance.

  It wasn’t perfect. He hadn’t watched her long enough to learn the full choreography. But he followed her example, blending ballet with moves from other dance styles. Like always, it was magic.

  The brush of their bodies, his hands on her skin, her weight in his arms. His body, still tired from a late night and waking earlier than he was used to, thrummed with the restless energy she brought out in him. Passion—for her, for the dance—lit in his veins.

  Dancing with her made him long for something more. He wanted this woman, this way and in all ways. Cool and aloof as she was off the dance floor, when they came together like this, she couldn’t hide herself. The glimpses were enough to make him crave more—more of her body, sure, but also a peek behind her sexy smirk and bedroom eyes. He wanted to know her, the secret Natasha she hid from the world, the Natasha who came out when she danced.

  That Natasha touched his heart, bringing him to his knees in a way no one ever had, or, he feared, ever would again. If he had to use their incredible sexual chemistry to get past her walls, he would. And if he had to use dance to ignite the fire between them, he’d do that, too. Even as it threatened to consume him.

  When the song ended and started over, they didn’t stop moving. This time, though, they danced closer. Touches lingered. His hands gripped tighter, and her body arched more sinuously. They abandoned the choreography in favor of twining around each other’s bodies to the beat of the music. The singer’s rich, smoky voice wrapped them in a spell of harmony and desire.

  Dimitri brought Natasha in from a spin, holding her back against his chest. Her throat was right there, left exposed by the teeny tank top and her high-bun hairstyle. Not so far, really. She was en pointe, and he was barefoot.

  Heart pounding, he pressed his mouth to her skin and dragged kisses up her neck, savoring her open-mouthed gasp as he tasted and teased the sensitive spot below her ear.

  Drunk on the biting ginger scent of her, he spun her in his arms until she was facing him. Her eyes flew to his, heavy-lidded and filled with hunger. His gaze latched on to her lips, parted and wet from where her tongue had run across them. As he lowered his head to hers, the awareness in her expression turned to anticipation. Triumph sang through him as her mouth trembled and pursed to meet his. With his body heavy and throbbing, urging him to go fast, he took it slow and touched the tip of his tongue to her lower lip.

  “Privet!”

  Dimitri jerked at the sound of his brother’s voice, the surprise and shock yanking his attention toward the door. In the confusion, he loosened his grip on Natasha, who wasn’t holding on to him. But when he shot out a hand to grab her, he hadn’t counted on her own balance kicking in, and his attempt to catch her turned into a shove. She stumbled backward, eyes wide in shock.

  Oh shit. She thought he’d pushed her. “Natasha, I’m—”

  “Mitya, you home?” Nik’s shout interrupted his apology, and Natasha nearly tripped over her pointe shoes as she scrambled to gather her computer equipment.

  Dimitri ground his teeth and ran his hands through his hair. His brother had the worst fucking timing. “It’s just Nikolai,” he said, following her out. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Natasha’s voice was breathy as she darted through the center of the house that held the main living space, running away from him before he could explain.

  From the front door, Nikolai gave them a puzzled look, and Dimitri could guess how it seemed. Him in nothing but sweatpants, Natasha in shorts and a leotard, arms full of tech, her point shoes slapping the floor as she hurried back to her room—fuck, to Nik’s room. Where he probably expected to stay.

  A grin split Nik’s face. “Oh, hey, N
atasha. Nice to see you.”

  “Hey, Nik.” She ducked her head and sent him a wave.

  Dimitri stuck his hands on his hips to keep from throwing something. Nik and Natasha knew each other from the times Nik had filled in as an extra on The Dance Off—and from a few mornings where they’d crossed paths in this very house. While it was nice not to have to make awkward introductions, something about their easy greeting set him on edge. “We were dancing.”

  Nik raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together to hide a grin. “Oh yeah?”

  “Gotta get ready for work.” With a polite nod, Natasha locked herself in the bedroom.

  Nik shouldered his duffel bag. “I’m going to resist making a Goldilocks joke,” he said in a stage whisper. “But just barely.”

  “Zatknis.” Scowling, Dimitri padded barefoot into the kitchen. He needed coffee if he was going to get himself under control and deal with his baby brother. He switched to Russian for the conversation, in case Natasha could hear them. “What are you doing here?”

  “Unexpected break in the schedule. Figured I’d come back for a few days rather than stick around in Kansas. Didn’t realize you’d given away my room.” Nik dumped his bags next to the bar stools at the kitchen counter, then hopped onto one of them. “You know what? I can’t resist.” In a high, singsong voice, he said in English, “Someone’s been sleeping in my bed!”

  Dimitri threw a dishtowel at his face. “Durak.”

  Nik caught it and switched back to Russian and his real voice. “The real question is, why isn’t she in your bed? Hey, make me some, too.”

  Dimitri grumbled, but got down the cups and ground the beans.

  Silence stretched between them, making Dimitri’s shoulder blades itch. He could feel his brother watching, judging, just waiting for the moment to make another joke.

  He wasn’t in the mood for Nik’s teasing. He was tired, horny, and—thanks to Nik’s timing—no closer to deciphering Natasha’s mysteries or convincing her to abandon her “no sex” rule.