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 the 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.

His kiss was as domineering as the rest of him. His lips commanded obedience, yet his tongue soothed when his demands were met. His hands possessed her, traveling over every inch of her skin, stoking the flames and making her desperate for more of his touch.

Yes, touch me, she wanted to say. Touch me everywhere and never stop.

Whenever they came together like this, a litany of pleas and demands and requests played through Natasha’s head. But she never said them out loud. She couldn’t let him know how much she wanted him, how much she craved his touch, his attention, his . . .

Don’t go there.

She shut off her thoughts, sank into the moment with him. Her gasps matched Greta’s on screen, and she wanted to know if they’d fucked off-screen, all those years ago, but didn’t ask.

“Take these off,” he said with a growl, tugging at her sleep shorts. It took some fancy maneuvering, since they were on the sofa, but he stripped her of her shorts—and panties—in record time.

This was going faster and further than she’d expected. “What are you—” His mouth cut off her question; one fingertip stroked between her folds, and she had her answer.

Yes . . .

When he broke the kiss to let her suck in air, he whispered in her ear. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t put you to sleep?”

Kind of him to offer. Except now she didn’t feel sleepy. Sensation zinged through her body. With his thumb on her clit and two fingers plunging inside her, he played her with skill and determination. The weight of his body pressing her into the sofa anchored her in the moment, and his kisses drove all thought from her mind. Thank god.

And there was the dirty talk.

Yeah, babe. Take it. Feel it. Don’t think about anything else. You think too much. Let me make you feel good.

Were you going to touch yourself during this scene? Isn’t the real thing better than a movie? You’re living the fantasy.

You work so hard, I want to help you relax.

When she snapped at him to shut up, he only laughed and shoved her tank top up to drag his tongue over her nipples. In retaliation, she stuck her hand down his underwear and grasped his hot length, wanting to feel his hardness as she came. He groaned and doubled his efforts.

It was too much and never enough. They stripped off their remaining clothing and rolled on the sofa, naked, their sweaty skin sticking to the leather and each other, their movements knocking cushions to the floor. He was like a man possessed, obsessed with making her come, but every time she got close, he backed off. When she whimpered, he laughed and returned to the task.

Through it all, the need to have him fill her taunted her from the edges of passion. Why the hell had she told him no sex? This was everything. She begged with her whimpers, with her hand on his dick, trying to yank him closer to her slit.

The infernal man only laughed and pushed her hand away. Then he put his mouth on her and drove her even higher. With lips and tongue, he broke her apart and put her back together countless times until finally, finally, he let her explode.

The orgasm rolled through her, wiping her thoughts and satisfying everything except her need for more.

As she was coming down and thinking about how to shift her body to get his cock inside her, the end credits rolled, along with the theme song. Dimitri’s body shifted over hers and his lips touched her ear.

“You see how well I treat my houseguests?”

She froze. Wait, houseguests? Was he referring to other women? Her skin broke out in goosebumps. She pulled back and stared at him. He blinked, like he realized what he said was shitty, then covered it up with a smile and gestured at the TV.

“I mean, I can’t have ladies staying under my roof turning to cheap copies of the real thing.”

Natasha stared at him as aftershocks from her explosive orgasm ravaged her body. Her heart pounded even as her limbs chilled at his words, at his smug, self-satisfied smile. Had she heard him correctly?

Normally, an orgasmic experience like that left her boneless and sleepy. But his words elicited a bolt of adrenaline, a fight-or-flight response, and she scrambled out from underneath him. Snatching up her clothes, she blurted out, “Thanks, I think I can sleep now,” and ran naked from the room.

The shocked look on his face followed her all the way back to the guest room she dared not think of as hers.

Nothing about him or his home was hers. Playing house like this was a game to him, nothing more than a pleasant diversion. She was one of many. Maybe he’d even done this before—helped a desperate woman by letting her stay with him. Her heart would be ruined if she ever allowed herself to expect anything more from him. She couldn’t read any deeper meaning into his actions, no matter how caring he seemed at times.

Beyond an easy screw, he didn’t care about her. He never would.

It was her mother all over again. Every time she thought she was getting closer, catching a glimpse of real emotional connection, it was snatched away from her, and she was reminded of the truth.

She just wasn’t good enough.

After pulling her pajamas back on, Natasha climbed underneath the covers again. Tonight sealed the deal. No sex, and she must avoid him at all costs.