by Alexis Daria
She gave him a warning glance. Donna was right there. “Hi, Dimitri. Nice to see you.”
“Tasha.” His gaze heated, and he leaned in to kiss her cheek. She was wearing heels, which brought her closer to his height but for a couple inches.
She caught a whiff of his cologne, the spicy green scent giving her flashbacks to the almost-kiss Nik had interrupted. She sucked on her lower lip, and his eyes widened.
“Tease,” he whispered.
Damn it, he was going to get them in trouble, and so was she if she couldn’t get her hormones under control. Natasha took a step back and aimed for a light, impersonal tone. “What are you doing here, Dimitri?”
He shrugged. “Same as you, I suppose. Pop culture piece for some morning show.”
“Weird that they’re doing this in the off-season,” Natasha remarked, turning as a PA came over to hook up their lavalier mics.
Dimitri dropped his voice. “It’s because Gina and Stone have refused to do a lot of promo. People want to book interviews with the winners, but since they can’t, they asked for the next best thing.”
Natasha frowned. “Kevin and Lauren? They came in second place.”
Dimitri laughed and flashed a cocky grin. “Nah. Better than that.” He leaned in and tapped his chest. “Me.”
She rolled her eyes and scoffed, but his nearness and that blasted cologne did things to her. Arousing things. “You’re so full of yourself.”
At that, he only raised a suggestive eyebrow.
Her pulse pounded in her throat. Fuck. Now she was thinking of being filled by him. Her lips parted, but before she could say a word, Donna approached with Vita and—shit, it was Muriel, one of the execs. Bitter Muriel, who was on the lookout for anything resembling fraternization between cast members.
Natasha smiled, taking a step away from Dimitri as she turned to face them. Muriel made introductions and explained the scenario. Dimitri would explain a few basic ballroom dance steps, demonstrate them with Natasha, then teach them to Vita. It sounded simple enough, and Natasha wasn’t expected to speak, just dance.
It would have made more sense for her to teach the woman’s part to Vita, but Dimitri was the draw here, not her.
They began filming, and Natasha filled her role, standing off to the side with a big smile on her face while Dimitri chatted with Vita about the differences between the Argentine tango and Viennese waltz.
“The tango is a very sexy dance,” he drawled, oozing sex appeal for the camera. Even knowing it was an act, Natasha fought the urge to fan herself. Then Dimitri turned to her, fire in his gaze, and held out a hand. “Let’s show how it’s done, Tasha.”
She stepped forward, suppressing a shiver at the thick way he said her name. She was a fucking mess. Lucky for her, these dances were ingrained in her muscle memory, and she could trust Dimitri to lead. She’d be fine.
Except Dimitri seemed to be doing all in his power to make her not fine. Yes, Argentine tango was a sexy dance to begin with, but coño. The press of his fingertips was just a little more forceful than the dance called for, his touches lingering a fraction of a second too long. He dipped her, his breath on her neck and his palm on her bare thigh, sliding, teasing, tantalizing . . .
Then she was upright, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Her heartbeat pounded heavily in her veins, and her whole body throbbed.
And then Dimitri turned to Vita and pulled her into the dance like it was nothing.
Natasha struggled to get herself under control while she watched. Dimitri was perfectly respectful with Vita. All the sexiness was in his voice. His touch and posture were impersonal, teacher to student. Vita didn’t seem to notice the difference. She was giggling and blushing by the time Dimitri released her.
And then they had the waltz. Most wouldn’t consider it a sensuous dance, but the way Dimitri did it, it was foreplay.
After it was over, Natasha rushed to the cooler to grab a bottle of cold water. Hot and bothered didn’t even begin to describe the sensations racing through her body. She gulped down water like she was dying of thirst, and when she lowered the bottle, Donna was there.
Natasha jumped, splashing water on her chest. “Jeez, Donna, you scared me.”
Donna’s smile was razor sharp. She raised an eyebrow, then deliberately turned to look at Dimitri, who chatted charmingly with Vita.
Nothing like abject fear to douse the flames of desire. Natasha swallowed hard and wiped at the water on her sequin-covered boobs.
Donna turned back with both eyebrows raised. She searched Natasha’s face for a moment before she spoke, every word deliberate. “Don’t ruin your life, Tash. He’s not worth it.”
“What?” The word came out more like a gasp, and Natasha tried to cover it with a nervous giggle and a shrug. “I mean, he’s hot, yeah. But come on.”
Donna only nodded, then walked over to Muriel. Natasha drank more water, then slipped out to change before Dimitri could get her fired on the spot.
10
Mission Turn Natasha On: Accomplished.
As they’d danced, he’d heard every catch of breath, felt every extra undulation beneath his hands. He recognized the glassy look in her dark eyes for what it was: desire. Of course, it had the same effect on him, but he could be patient. He was playing the long game.
Then Muriel approached with a smile that was too sweet to be true. He excused himself from his conversation with Vita and turned to speak to his boss.
“That was great, Dimitri,” Muriel said. “We’d love to have you come in for more of these kinds of spots, if you’re open to it. It really keeps the viewers invested between seasons, and you know you have the rep as the mean judge. They love seeing the softer side of you.”
His shoulders tightened. “No promises. I’ve got some other projects keeping me pretty busy at the moment.” Like getting Natasha to open up to him and accept how right they were for each other.
Muriel was undeterred. “I also noticed we didn’t get your contract for next season. Did you send that in?”
Pizdets. This wasn’t going how he’d hoped. And Natasha had already disappeared, so there was no reason for him to stick around. He had to ditch Muriel. “Not yet. Busy, like I said.”
“Do you want us to print out a copy for you now? You can sign it before you leave.”
Under the collar of his costume shirt, he started to sweat. “I’ve actually got to get going right now,” he said, edging toward the door. He snapped one of the sparkly suspenders. “I’ll bring this back later. See you, Muriel.”
He charged out the door. In the hallway, he untangled himself from the lav mic and slapped it into the hands of a passing PA. Still in costume and makeup, with his hair slicked down with industrial strength hair gel, he dashed out to the parking lot and climbed into the Porsche. He looked for Natasha’s Prius among the many parked in the lot, but didn’t see it. He didn’t know how she’d gotten away so quickly, but he knew where to find her, at least.
When he checked his phone, he had two missed calls from Alex, and five from the restaurant. Shit. Was something on fire?
Everything else would have to wait. He got on the freeway and headed toward Krasavitsa, where he could lose himself for the rest of the day in non-dance related worries.
And he could put off thinking about Alex’s deadline and The Dance Off contract for one more day.
11
As exhausted as Natasha was at the end of the day, her mind was still on that promo shoot. She took a cold shower and forced herself to go to bed early, the better to avoid Dimitri, who once again was out. But she tossed and turned, jumping at every little sound. When she heard him come home, her heart pounded so loud, she was sure he’d be able to hear through the bedroom door.
Listening to him moving around the house didn’t help her situation. Her body pulsed with need, and it took all her self-control to keep her ass in bed. It would be so easy. He would say yes. Hell, he’d welcome her if she strolled out and said, “Hey, wanna fuck
?” Imagining the look of delight that would transform his features brought on an attack of the giggles, and she pressed her face into the pillow to stifle them.
Eventually, the house quieted. He must have gone to bed. She dozed a bit, but not for long. She tried deep breathing. She tried playing a puzzle game on her phone. Nothing worked.
Disgusted with herself, she threw on her glasses and a thin, over-sized sweatshirt and crept from the room.
On the other side of the house, she let herself into the TV room and fumbled through the pile of remotes before she managed to turn on the TV and pull up the cable guide. She searched for a period drama, full of sweeping music, beautiful costumes, and manicured landscapes, when she found something much, much better.
Aliens Don’t Dance. The movie that had taken Dimitri from competitive ballroom dancing to Hollywood and made him a star.
After looking over her shoulder to make sure the door into the room was shut, she settled in to watch. She’d seen it countless times, of course. When it came out over a decade ago, she and Gina and their dance-major friends from high school had cut their last classes of the day and gone to the five-dollar movie theater to see it. Natasha had loved it.
The story of an alien crash-landing on Earth, taking the form of a super-hot human man, and stumbling upon MTV for his Earth education had been silly, sure, but Dimitri made the character of Reygar endearing. The earnest way he used dance to connect with other humans—and eventually with one human woman in particular—warmed her heart, and embodied what dance was all about.
Like all creative arts, dance centered on connection. Dancers used their bodies to make the audience feel something. They interpreted music into physical form, and thus gave it a shape. Aliens Don’t Dance was everything she loved about dance—the ability to use movement to express what you couldn’t, or didn’t dare, say in words. Dimitri didn’t talk until the halfway point of the movie, after he was able to repair his ship’s translator device.
Natasha wrapped a crocheted afghan around herself and snuggled further into the comfy leather sofa. It was weird to be watching a young Dimitri on TV in his own house, while he slept a few rooms away. But it also gave her a thrill. This was Dimitri as she’d first seen him, when she was still a teenager, and he’d been in his early twenties. His Ukrainian - by - way - of - Brooklyn accent was slightly more pronounced, his voice not as deep or gravelly as it was now. His face was softer, his body leaner, but he was still a handsome man who oozed sex appeal. He had incredible chemistry with Greta Marcus, the female lead, a once-popular actress who’d faded into obscurity after the movie became a hit, while Dimitri’s career had taken off. Natasha had once looked her up online, and it seemed she’d decided to settle down and have a family. It made sense. This business was hard on relationships and families.
A smile curved Natasha’s lips. Greta was an ideal candidate for The Dance Off. Maybe she’d suggest it to Dimitri.
A hand clamped on her shoulder. Natasha yelped and leapt a foot in the air. Heart pounding, she stared up at Dimitri, who stood behind the sofa with sleep-rumpled hair, cloaked in shadows. His eyes flicked to the screen and he shook his head.
“I can’t believe you’re watching this trash.”
Natasha squished herself into a corner of the sofa as he came around and sat beside her, watching himself on the TV with a rueful grin.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He snorted. “This’ll do the job.”
“What are you talking about? This is a great movie.”
“A great movie?” He snorted again and gave her a sidelong glance. “You don’t have to flatter me, you know.”
She rolled her eyes. “Lord knows your ego is big enough already. But I’m serious. I love this movie.”
“Okay, that’s enough lies for one night.” He reached for the remote on the coffee table.
“No!” Natasha flung herself across his lap and slapped the remote out of his hand. “I’m watching it.”
His eyes sparked with interest. A warning sign, but she wasn’t fast enough to scramble away. And really, she didn’t want to.
“What do you like about this movie?” he asked in a low voice, leaning into her.
“Um . . .” Her mind went blank. What movie? The video on her laptop? Oh, wait, no. The movie on TV. “Uh, the dancing.”
“My dancing?”
“Just . . . in general. All the dancing. By everyone.”
His eyes narrowed, like he knew she was full of shit. “If you were that desperate for the real thing you could have just asked. You didn’t have to find me on TV.” His grin was wicked, his eyes flickering with the reflected light of the TV. She pressed herself back against the thick, cushioned arm of the sofa, but he crawled over her, blanketing her with his body. He wore only a pair of boxer briefs that did nothing to hide his arousal.
On screen, young Dimitri danced shirtless with Greta, larger than life with his six-pack abs and ability to dominate a scene. But the real Dimitri was so much more overwhelming, not to mention bigger, stronger, and older. Dark knowledge danced in his eyes as his hands molded over her hips, waist, ribs. In a split-second, he’d divested her of her sweatshirt.
His chuckle was husky. “You’re getting off on this aren’t you?”
Time to play stupid. “On what?” Carajo, her voice had gone breathy. She breathed in the scent of him, bit back a moan.
“Watching me on TV, seducing another woman.”
“I like the story,” she answered primly, earning a full-out laugh. Because he’d pushed her thighs apart, the vibrations of his belly pressed right against her most sensitive area, and she sucked in a gasp. His arms caged her in, but instead of feeling trapped, she felt supported. Secure. When she was in his arms, she almost believed everything would be all right, and she could have all the things she’d ever wanted but thought she’d never have.
Except it was all a lie. She lowered her lashes, unable to gaze upon either Dimitri—the real one, or the one on TV. This was the danger of being with him. He lured her into a false sense of security, but in the harsh light of day, she was still who she’d always been—a poor Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx whose own mother had never found it in her heart to love her.
Dimitri’s lips on her arm were a welcome distraction. His mouth on her skin, his closeness, the warmth of his body and scent seeping into hers—were better than the road her thoughts wanted to go down. He shifted higher over her, bringing his heavy cock against her pelvis. She bit back a groan.
When he leaned in to kiss her, she’d already made up her mind that she would let him, but he stopped and tilted his head to look at her in the light from the TV.
“You look tired, Kroshka.”
He’d called her this a few times before, usually after sex or when he was drunk. She didn’t know what it meant, but the term of endearment melted her heart a little every time he said it. She held those memories to her in the dark, when she was feeling weakest and most alone.
“I am tired.”
“So why are you awake in the middle of the night watching me on TV? The studio sent me a box of DVDs. You can watch anytime you want.”
She suppressed a nervous giggle. She already had the movie on DVD. “It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
This line of questioning skirted too close to things she didn’t want to discuss. She twined her arms around his neck and arched against him. “Why do you want to know?”
It worked. His lids drooped, and he rocked his hips against her, drawing a gasp from her lips.
“Tell me,” he growled.
She shook her head and rubbed her breasts on his chest, aching for the touch of his hands or mouth. Why was he doing this? Why wasn’t he distracting her the way he was so good at?
The movie’s theme song started playing on the TV: “Dance with Me.”
He groaned and dropped his head onto her shoulder. “I hate this song.”
Despite the desire incinerating her from th
e inside out, Natasha laughed. “I love it.”
He scowled at her. “You would.”
“Hey, I was the target audience when this came out. Teenage girls.”
His eyebrows rose. “You saw it when it came out?”
“Of course.” Three times.
His eyes roamed her face, his scrutiny so intense, she had to look away and watch the big dance number.
“Tell me why you’re not sleeping even though you’re tired.”
She shut her eyes. Why was he pushing this? They never talked about real life stuff. “You’re so stubborn.”
“I prefer tenacious or persistent.”
“Try annoying.”
He nudged her with his cock and her eyes flew open. “Tell me.”
“I’m stressed, okay?” she snapped. In retaliation, she clamped her thighs around his hips and did a body roll that had him moaning.
He nipped at her shoulder. “About the apartment? I told you, you can stay here as long as you need.”
“The apartment, the money—” She stopped short of saying “my mother.” He didn’t need to know all that. “And I can’t stay here that long. I have to be out before The Dance Off starts filming. You know that.”
He shrugged and pressed his face into the curve of her neck, nibbling along her collarbones. It was suspicious that he didn’t answer, but with his mouth on her, she didn’t give a shit about anything else.
“It’s time for the sex scene,” he murmured against her jaw.
“What?” The word was a gasp, a prayer, a plea.
His tone held amusement. “In the movie.”
“Oh.” Her gaze flew to the screen, where young Dimitri fisted his hand in the back of his t-shirt, pulled it over his head, and flexed his abs. The absurdity of the situation hit her. She’d seen him do that move at least a dozen times. And here he was now, years later, seducing her during the sex scene of his own movie.
She almost laughed. But then he finally kissed her and she didn’t care how ludicrous this all was. She just wanted him.