Careful, I tell myself.
Too late, another part of me answers.
I set one hand on her waist.
She inhales.
Then she slides her hand up to my shoulder, fingers light against the leather there, and we start to move.
It’s barely dancing. More swaying than anything else.
But she’s in my arms.
Her body is warm and soft against mine. Herperfume is subtle, something clean and floral with a hint of spice. Every time she breathes, the top of her dress shifts just enough to threaten my already fragile self-control.
She tips her face up toward me. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re standing rhythmically.”
“That feels generous.”
“I’m a generous person.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She smiles at that, but it fades into something quieter after a second. Something real.
Around us, the room blurs into noise and candlelight.
This—
This is dangerous in a whole different way.
Because I knew I wanted her. I’ve known that for years.
But this isn’t just want.
It’s the way she fits. The ease of her in my space. The way my body seems to recognize hers instantly, as though some part of me has been waiting for this exact moment without my permission.
And more than that?—
I like making her happy.
Like the honest, uncomplicated pleasure on herface when she looked at me and realized I’d dressed up too. The way she leaned into me on the walk over here. The way she looks at me now like I’m not a temporary convenience for a wedding weekend but someone she’s actually glad to be with.
My chest tightens.
Shit.
This is bad.
Not because I don’t want it.
Because I do.
Too much.
