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“Then she promised me not a one of my bodyguards would find my remains if I took advantage of that. So I dare say the compulsion to provide me with death threats runs in the family.”
Something in my chest eases as I laugh. “You know something? It really makes sense that it’s a genetic trait.”
“Does it now?” Finn watches me while I pull my marshmallow off the prongs and take a bite. Caution coats him, and he circles his fingertip around the plastic of the cup holder in his chair’s armrest. “Marcella.”
I arch a brow.
“I…” He clears his throat. “Well, could you… Would.” He swallows. “Would you…”
“Are you having a stroke?” I ask.
He blurts, “Would you tolerate a dance with me?”
A laugh bursts from the very deepest part of my chest with such force I nearly lose my marshmallow.
Finn nods, gripping his armrest. “Right. Yes. That’s what I thought. Never mind.”
Stuffing the rest of my marshmallow in my mouth, I let my nose wrinkle. “Come on.” I set my skewer down by my chair, take his hand, and drag him away from the blaze, the people, the fairy light circle. I bring him to the butterfly garden, guide him through the arches of flowers that will soon frost away. Pausing at the switch for the fountain lights, I turn on the bubbling centerpiece so an ice blue glow coats the scene.
Beyond the cover of blossoming trees, bushes, and extravagant archways, music, crackles, and voices drift.
“Okay.” I face Finn once we’ve reached the most spacious swathe of grass in between the benches and flowers, beside the fountain’s bubbling gleam. “Pay attention. Here’s what you’re not going to do.”
He stands straight, stiff, stunned smile-less.
I graze his cheek, barely touching, with my fingertips. “Feel that?”
He chokes on the word. “Yes.”
“I hate that. The there but not there sensation sucks. Any touch I’m not expecting sucks, so always give me a head’s up if I can’t see what you’re doing, then…” I grip the back of his neck, letting my nails nip into the base of his skull. “…then make sure you follow through. Be assertive and definite. Don’t worry about hurting me because the soft crap actually hurts worse. If that makes any sense to you at all.”
In the white-blue light of the fountain, he turns compelling shades of red.
“Are you comfortable with what I’m asking for?” I murmur.
“You…want me to be rough with you.” His lungs fill. “Are you comfortable with the intimacy of that request?”
My heart flutters. I search his eyes. “I don’t know. Let’s find out.”
Before I drop my hand, he grips my wrist, plants it solidly against his shoulder, and scrapes his fingers down my arm, through the long sleeve of my dress. Reaching my waist, he reels me in, hips against his, every finger present through the fabric of my skirt. He takes my free hand in his other. Ballroom style.
I don’t get a moment to laugh and remind him that the extent of my dancing skills begin and end with lamely sway. He bends my fingers back, stretches my pulse, and presses a hard kiss to the beat.
It leaps against his lips.
“Marcella,” he says. His eyes meet mine, torment and desire thick in the darkening blue.
I lose all the feeling in my legs, but he has me. Completely.
When his fingers find my hair, they bury deep and grip fast, baring my throat. A disgraceful sound I’m refusing to dwell on strangles from my mouth.
He dips me, letting gravity pour my weight into his hands. His damp breath runs across my cheek, and I don’t hate it. I don’t. Not even a little.
Voice gravely, he whispers, “May I kiss you?”
Scalding warmth boils beneath my flesh, burning every spot our bodies connect.
He’s got me off balance. Dizzy. Helpless.
