Three Ways to Wicked (24 page)

Popping another savory morsel of poultry into his mouth, she looked him square in the eye, her own twinkling with a devilment that put him on high alert. “Put your hand on my leg.”

He returned her stare for a long moment, attempting to decipher if this was part of her cover or something else. Something that’d ultimately prove a far tougher test to his control.

“Don’t make me punish you for your disobedience, Jer.”

The mock sternness in her tone did funny things to his gut. Or maybe the sudden stiffening of his cock had something to do with the lazy swirl of her fingertip along his abdomen. Hard to tell.

Extra emphasis on
hard
.

If he was smart, he would have called an end to their training right there and packed it in for the night, but apparently his intelligence had migrated south for the winter. “What punishment are you intending to dish out?”

“Well…” She set aside the forgotten plate of salad and straddled his lap. Her fingers drifted along the delicate swells of her hips, the soft
scritch
of her nails raking the supple leather providing an erotic soundtrack. “If you won’t touch me, maybe I should make you watch
me
do it.”

Surely she didn’t mean that the way it sounded. “Avi—”

She pressed a fingertip to his mouth. “No, you had your chance. Now you’re going to pay the price.”

Oh, he held no doubt of that. Particularly when her hands ghosted upward, tracing her rib cage and higher still to the fullness of her breasts. She rolled the pads of her fingers over her nipples, mimicking the motions he’d used earlier in the bathroom. His lungs suddenly felt equally as constricted as his damn briefs.

She licked her lips, the sultry haze of desire in her eyes nearly doing him in. “Did you like touching me? Do you wish you could do it right now? Would you caress my breasts, or maybe slide your hand up under my skirt and find out how wet I am?”

Sweet goddess.
He hissed a breath between his teeth. “Don’t play this dangerous game with me.”

“Why? Worried I’ll crack through that legendary control of yours?” One palm swept lower and hovered temptingly near her mound.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. He’d never been more grateful for the hindrance of a skirt. Ironic, considering he usually cursed them to hell and back for slowing his seduction progress.

The heated glimmer in her eyes making him infinitely nervous and aroused, Avi lifted onto her knees and tiptoed her fingers along the creamy-smooth expanse of her thighs. Hypnotized, he watched the slow crawl of her hemline ascending toward her hips. The black lace triangle of her panties popped into view, and his shaky exhalation snuck loose before he could rope it into submission. Damn. He was a fucking sucker for sexy underthings.

Then again, he was a fucking sucker when it came to Avi. Period.

“Do you like what you see?” She leaned forward until her lips grazed his earlobe. “Or should I give you something even better to watch?”

His brain screamed one answer while his cock piped in with an entirely different response. Not trusting the words that might jog loose of his mouth, he swallowed hard. This close, he could smell the sweet heat of her. Beneath the luscious floral essence, he easily detected the feminine musk of her arousal. It was driving him out of his mind. He longed to hike her up into his arms and bury his head between her legs, fill his nose with the heady intoxication of her pussy, right before he filled
her
with his tongue.

She leaned back, awarding him some room to enjoy the show. He knew he was in some serious trouble the instant she hesitantly stroked over the fabric covering her crotch. She was soaked. The slick, succulent sound taunting him verified it. No need for him to see or feel her wet, velvety flesh firsthand.

But he wanted to.

Dear gods, how he wanted to.

The best partners share everything…

Lead and Follow

© 2013 Katie Porter

Club Devant, Book 1

Lizzie Maynes’s torn ACL threatens more than her career as an international Latin ballroom champion. During her lengthy recovery, her longtime professional partner, Dima Turgenev, has been dancing at the Chelsea District’s most notorious burlesque, Club Devant. More than just dancing, he’s been experimenting with shocking new moves that make her want to pull him off stage and get back on tour as soon as possible—the better to keep their successful friendship safe.

Dima knows all about safety, and the lack thereof, because he blames himself for Lizzie’s injury. Far from the pressures of competition, Club Devant is the perfect creative venue to rebuild his rattled confidence. He’d love for Lizzie to join him and revel in the club’s intoxicating freedoms. By exploring the new sensual energy simmering between them, they could become
more
than friends.

Paul Reeves, a recently divorced Texan starting over in the Big Apple, is all for joining the dancers as they blaze through sexual boundaries. But he also knows their sizzling trio won’t last. Lizzie and Dima belong together. Before the last sparks fade, he plans to transform two stubborn friends into lasting lovers—one raunchy lesson at a time.

Warning
:
Burlesque meets ballroom in this f***ing sexy book when a smoldering Russian dance god and a blonde firecracker with hips possessed by the devil share a sunny, filthy-minded Texan—but only for a dance or two.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Lead and Follow:

The taxi sped north into Hell’s Kitchen.

Pressing her head against the cool window, Lizzie gazed without focus at the bright lights. A gentle rain began to fall, which only refracted the colors to smaller slivers. After paying the driver, she raced out of the car and up the brownstone steps. Key code. Front door. Safe and dry. She trudged up the stairs as if a firing squad awaited her in their living room.

More often than she wanted to admit, she’d lain in bed listening to Dima and his occasional one-night stands get it on. Headboard banging. Girl shrieking. Hell, sometimes it’d been another man—their thrusting rhythm even harder, meaner. Only Dima’s moans and grunts of pleasure tempted Lizzie to slide her trembling hand down her panties. She’d stroked herself, circling her clit faster and faster, as their rhythm turned orgasmic.

Always she would lie there in the aftermath of overwhelming release, panting, her mind full to bursting with images she’d believed she would never see in person. Justifications jumped to mind quickly, defensively.

Just like porn.

Could’ve been anyone.

Only an easy way to get off.

She didn’t want him. She didn’t want to be the one he made scream.

No way could she handle it. Something too raw had been scraped open. Considering the little display she’d enacted with Paul, she deserved whatever Dima dished out. That didn’t make the prospect any more palatable.

She wanted their old life back. Her career. Her partner. No complications. Just the satisfaction of winning and knowing her place in the world. At the top of the second flight of stairs, she smacked her knee out of spite. The ruined knee.

Making plenty of noise in the lock, she allowed enough time for his date to freak out and grab a blanket, if she turned out to be the modest type. With Lizzie’s luck, that girl Jeanne would be the sort of exhibitionist who liked screaming and moaning.

Hands shaking. Breath shallow. Inner thighs tender from straddling Paul. Christ, she was a mess.

The apartment was dark. Quiet. Still.

Relief swished down her spine, leaving her boneless. She could shower, rest and regroup before having to face him again. But the back of her neck prickled. She was reaching out to flip on the floor halogen when his voice pierced the dark.

“Don’t.”

“Shit, you scared me,” she said on a squeak.

“Sorry.”

She didn’t think he was. Otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting on the couch in the dark. Open shades in the dining room let in light from the streetlamps, bathing his bare chest in a golden glow. Her mouth had gone dry. She didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Two months back in each other’s company and they were still behaving as politely as strangers.

God, I miss you.

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t think you’d be alone.”

“And I didn’t think you’d be home so soon. Wasn’t he worth waiting for the end of his shift?”

Ice clinked in his glass as he sipped. A vodka bottle was open on the coffee table. Since when did he drink hard liquor? He was such a health nut, and his parents’ slow demise into the throes of alcoholism had turned him into a near teetotaler.

Lizzie frowned. Maybe he wasn’t as closed off as she always thought. The drink in his hands was the equivalent of waving a bright red flag. Maybe he was as lost as she was, but that didn’t mean sitting down and having a heart-to-heart. She’d survived fifteen years as his partner because of their common purpose. There wasn’t much to interpret when training, traveling and winning were their only goals—well, and keeping each other sane in the process.

Now, however. No goals. No way of getting inside his locked-down thoughts.

She tossed her clutch on the desk, knowing its momentum would mess up his careful stacks of bills and papers. Time to try out her theory. “You should know he was good, Dima. You were listening at the door.”

Had Lizzie missed the mark entirely, he would’ve denied it with a look of indignation. He didn’t.

She smiled very, very softly to herself and crossed to the back of the couch. Her heels sounded overly loud on the hardwood. None of this made sense. The terrible, taunting refrain of
mine, mine, mine
—it was back. She couldn’t tune it out. Dima Turgenev was her best friend. At the moment, poised on possibilities, she wasn’t seeing him as just a partner. She wanted a taste of something more.

She slid her hands over his shoulders and down his naked chest. He was tense. Incredibly tense. His little intake of breath encouraged her more than any words.

“You did,” she said. “You listened at the door of your own dressing room.” His taut stomach muscles bunched beneath her fingertips. “I wonder if you could hear him come over the music.”

He swallowed. “No.”

“Such a gorgeous low groan,” she whispered against his neck. “But I’m sure you heard me.”

Another swallow. His heart thundered beneath her palms, which only stoked the fizzle and pop in her blood. Oh, this was not good.
Really
not good. Because the concept of coming on to two men in the same evening—one of them the partner who rarely merited a second look—should’ve been repulsive. Trampy. Maybe even desperate, knowing she was only trying to prove herself after her injury.

Instead she felt powerful and so sexy. She would’ve traded every second with Paul had the choice been between riding that hot cowboy and stroking the firm, graceful muscles of Dima’s chest.
Since when?

“I heard you, little one.”

“And?”

“And…I’m glad he satisfied you.”

Lizzie stood abruptly. Leave it to him to kill the moment. When he danced, he could convey any emotion,
every
emotion—from playful to outright panty-wet sexy. He was as much a talented actor as he was an amazing dancer.

Offstage, he had the reserve of a sealed bank vault. Again she wanted him to break loose. Shout and cuss and call her names and
claim her
. Anything other than the torture of being ignored. Was this why he’d been so quietly pissed at her for not coming to see him perform at Devant?
Damn.
Her fears aside, she should’ve been there for him.

“Never mind.” She turned toward her bedroom.

Dima grabbed her wrist and kissed the tender skin inside. “Me, though? Not satisfied at all.”

The rhythm of her heart stuttered. “Oh?”

He dragged her arm down his body, slowly, giving her every chance to withdraw. She wound up bent over the back of the couch, her breasts pressed against his nape, her arms stretched down his lean torso. With their fingers twined, he settled her palm over his cock.

Rock hard.

She fought to speak, knowing the volume would be all off. The rush of blood in her ears was just too strong. “What about Jeanne?”

With a move more suited to the dance floor, he grasped beneath her arms and pulled her over the back of the couch. Lizzie found herself lying on her back, stretched flat across his lap, with his thighs arching her spine. Dima, the man she’d known since he was a preadolescent kid fresh over from Moscow, stared down at her with the intensity he only revealed on stage.

When the stakes were their highest.

“Don’t you know, little one? She was the wrong blonde.”

Relationship, no…but threesome, hell yes!

How to Love

© 2013 Kelly Jamieson

San Amaro Singles, Book 2

Ever since Jules’s new neighbor moved in, she’s been undressing him in her mind. Mike is the fresh inspiration she needs to make her erotic photography studio a success, if she can convince him
and
his equally buff roommate, Carlos, to strip for her lens. And maybe indulge in a little off-camera fun as well.