“Oh hell no.” I start to pull away, self-conscious, but Harrisford pulls me back. I stumble forward into his arms, less stable than usual on account of my high heels—silver-colored stiletto-type things that Harrisford also sent. I’d been a bit confused when I’d opened them and found them to be exactly my size, since his mother’s work shoes had been slightly too big.
I’m collapsed against the hard planes of his chest, feeling thelines of muscle beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. I blush, remembering how I’d ogled those muscles in his actual bedroom…And before I notice anything further he has me fully clasped against his body, his hand splayed against my back.
“Just dance, Chan.” His voice is commanding, even though he’s leaning down and whispering the words against my ear. “It’ll look suspicious if we don’t. And we don’t want people to start asking questions…”
“But, Briggs,” I hiss back. “I don’t know how to—”
And then we’re doing it. It’s unbelievable, but I’m dancing. Spinning around the floor with the melody swelling all around us and colorful couples, all wearing masks, sashaying around the room. There are two old white-haired men together, every now and then giving each other an affectionate peck on the lips. There’s a father dancing with his daughter, a little wisp of a thing in a floaty lilac dress. Skirts twirl in rainbow circles, and the faerie lights reflect off sparkling jewels. It’s a riot of color, and beauty, and music, and before long I get swept up in it, as though I am in a dream.
I don’t actually know how to dance, but Harrisford clearly does, and his easy grace and confident movements mask my extreme lack of ability. Before long, I’m giggling, laughing so hard every time I take a wrong step that I have to cling to Harrisford’s shoulders to avoid doubling over.
“Chan,” he says, smiling in spite of himself. “What’s so funny?” He raises our twined hands and twirls me. Below my knees, my skirt flies out in a perfect, plum-colored circle.
“I don’t know,” I choke out, trying to stifle my mirth. “This is all so serious. You look so serious. And I—” Despite my efforts to hold in it, I let out another giggle. “I think I’m just delirious because I hardly got any sleep.” It’s hard to imagine that less than twenty-four hours ago I’d had my entire arm up a qílín, with Harrisford standingnext to me, coaching me on how to pull a foal. And now I’m in this glittering place, and actually dancing, like magic.
“You meanwehardly got any sleep. I, too, am severely sleep-deprived, yet you don’t see me giggling like a drunken centaur.” He’s pretending to scold me, affecting a stern tone. But the smile on his lips and the shake in his shoulders suggest that he too is holding back laughter.
I stumble again, getting the dance step wrong, and to hide my error, he lowers me into a dip. Having not expected it, I let out a little squeal, reflexively winding my arms around his neck. As he rights me again, he sucks in a breath, and I let out mine—slow and shivery, heavy with longing.
The movement brings us closer than we’ve ever been before, our body heat enveloping us whole. Again, that electric tension builds between us, the thin sliver of air that separates us blistering with heat. Desire, molten hot, pulls deep in my lower belly, and we’ve stopped spinning, standing still amid the sea of couples.
The skin of his neck heats beneath my hands. His body, pressed up against mine, is scorching, his eyes burning behind his mask. My eyebrows knit as I analyze his features, my heart thundering as I search his face.
It’s starting to feel awfully hot in here.
“Chan—” he starts, then pauses.
I feel feverish; I can barely breathe. “Yes?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he raises his hand, the tips of his fingers skating across my cheek so softly that I shiver. Then—very gently, and very purposefully—he pushes up my mask so that it perches atop my head like a feathery sort of fascinator.
Sudden, incredulous laughter bursts from my lips. “What are you doing?”
“I wanted to see your face.” The low pitch of his voice sends a thrill right through my body.
I tilt my face to his so that our mouths are almost touching. His hot breath fans my lips. His fingers—splayed against my lower back—twitch, just once, before he flattens his hand against the curve of my spine, crushing me harder against him.
Everyone around us is still dancing, but I barely notice. It’s as though we’re alone, just the two of us, standing at the center of a snowstorm.
My pulse pounds in my ears. All of a sudden I’m oddly nervous. And when I finally speak again, my words are a whisper, almost without sound. “What if I want to see yours?”
It’s incredible he even hears me.
He gives me a smile that’s all sharp angles and wicked promise. Then he goes completely still as I slowly raise his mask. I let my fingers linger at his temple, then slide them down to graze his jaw, relishing the faint feel of stubble that covers it.
Our eyes lock. We’re jammed up against each other, our bodies rigid with tension. Silhouetted by the faerie lights above his head, his irises are pools of shadow—I can’t even tell they’re different colors. But what Icantell is that they’re fixed right on me, watching me so intently.
“Briggs,” I breathe.
Only millimeters separate his lips from mine…but in this moment, it could well be miles. A distance that spans seven years, full of endless taunting, fierce rivalry, animosity, contempt—
But Harrisford…Harrisford doesn’t seem to feel the distance, because he’s leaning in, he’s pulling my face to his, he’s pressing his lips, which are unexpectedly soft, against mine.
His tongue sweeps against my mouth and I sigh, opening up tohim, so that the kiss—which starts out slow, and tentative, and full of unexplored yearning—suddenly becomes so much…more.
Something seems to shift within him. He inhales sharply, grasping my face with both hands, taking control, angling us so that he can deepen the kiss. My knees almost buckle but there’s nowhere to go because Harrisford is holding on to me so tight, every curve of my body melded seamlessly against the hard muscular lines of his.
Our kiss turns frantic, desperate, like a battle of wills. A dance of our own making, where neither of us leads or follows. My hands are crushed against his chest and his are tangled in my hair and I’m oblivious to everything and all I can think about is Harrisford, Harrisford, Harrisford. How he feels, how he tastes, the scent of him filling my nostrils. It’s so wild and heady that I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I’m being swept away—
