With Strings Attached (36 page)

He nuzzled her ear. “Okay?” he whispered.

Get a grip, get a grip.
“Okay.”

She dragged air into her lungs and smiled at the bartender who slid two bottles of beer across the bar to them. Ryan tossed him a twenty-dollar bill and let him keep the change.

“Throwing money around,” she murmured.

“Makes them think I’m rolling in it,” he answered back, gaze fastened on her so that anyone looking at him would have thought he’d just said, “Let’s go back to my place and f*ck each other stupid.” Hot eyes and a sexy smile seduced her. “They know I have to get that much cash from selling guns or dope.”

“Ah.” She nodded, quivering inside. Suddenly doubt filled her. Doubt at her ability to withstand Ryan looking at her like he wanted to do her right there on the bar, smiling seductively, touching her with warm hands. But hey there
–
she didn’t have to withstand it. They were a couple, and if they wanted to convince people of that, she might as well just give herself over to it. As long as she kept her wits about her when it came to other people, she could bask in the glow of Ryan’s calescent attention.

She gave him her own sultriest smile then and watched his pupils expand. She tipped the bottle to her mouth and swallowed, icy cold beer tracing a path from mouth over her tongue and down her esophagus. Maybe she wasn’t the only one affected. Interesting.

“Hey, Tommy.” Vince approached them and gave Ryan a slap on the shoulder. “What’s up, man?”

“Not much. Hey, you remember Sara?”

Vince eyed her and Sera smiled. “Hi, Vince.”

“Hey, Sara.” His eyes moved between them and he smiled then winked at Ryan. “Good work, man.” He tilted his chin toward the back of the bar. “Carly’s back there, she’ll be happy to see you again.”

Sera wondered if that was her clue to send her off, but Ryan pulled her against him and wrapped his arm around her. “You can go talk to her in a few minutes,” he said.

Vince grinned. “Uh-huh.”

“Hey, thanks again for saving my ass the other night,” Ryan said to Vince. “I owe you big time for that. Chomp would’ve killed me.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “He was f*ckin’ hammered. Nice guy, but turns into a mean drunk. Good thing you’ve got your own babe tonight.”

“He here?”

“Not yet.” Vince slugged back some beer. “Probably later. So I guess you don’t want to meet my cousin Maria, huh?”

Sera frowned and gave Ryan an evil look. He grinned, squeezed her waist. “Nah. Thanks anyway.”

“You coming to El Mirage this weekend?” Vince was looking at her. She looked inquiringly at Ryan.

“I don’t know,” she said flirtatiously. “Am I, Tommy?”

He scowled. “Don’t push me, babe. I said we’ll see.” He looked at Vince and shrugged.

“Bring her,” Vince urged. “It’ll be fun.”

“Maybe.”

Sera pouted, but sipped her beer.

“Let’s go talk to A.J.,” Ryan said and pulled her along. Vince followed them down the length of the bar to a table in the back near the pool table, where A.J. sat with a group of guys.

They took up so much space, all of them big, in black leather. And there was Manny, just as big, bald headed and mean looking. Sera ignored him.

As they pulled chairs up to the table, the men all gave Sera a good looking over. She ignored them too, as she took her seat. Ryan sat close to her and leaned in. “You have just been eye-f*cked, sweetheart,” he murmured. “How was it?”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I’ve had better.” She tossed her hair back.

“You got nice tits, honey!” one of the guys called to her across the table.

Sera sent a look his way that she hoped was sufficiently badass and said, “Thanks. So do you. Only, yours are bigger.”

The guy looked down at his chest and she saw Ryan roll his lips in to keep from laughing, because it was true. The guy’s beer belly was only marginally bigger than his man boobs. Everyone at the table hooted with laughter.

“She put you in your place, asshole,” Vince said with a snicker. “I like this girl.”

She and Ryan shared a grin and she thought she saw a flicker of admiration on his face.

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.”

With Strings Attached