Uncle Bob lifts his glass often and shouts, “ToRoberto!”
The music shifts. A slow Strauss waltz begins.
Ransom holds out his hand. “Dance with me, Sweet Em.”
I lay my hand on his, feeling the eroticism and the undeniable rightness of thenow.
He leads me to the dance floor, hand at the small of my back, the other is warm as it curls around mine. We begin to move. It’s seamless—like we’ve always done this.
I can feel every inch of him. The heat of his hand.The measured rhythm of his breath. The way his eyes never quite leave mine.
“Em,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“I want to fuck you.”
I gasp at how raw he sounds.
I clear my throat and let out a shaky chuckle. “I guess…I guess that would be alright.”
He bursts out laughing. “Ember Rousseau, you’re precious.” And then he dips me, holding my gaze. “And you’re mine.”
The music swells. We turn in a slow circle.
“It’s time,” Mama yells, and everyone starts the countdown.
Ten.
There’s a space held open between us with trembling possibility. “I want to be alone with you,” I breathe.
Nine.
His eyes heat. “Now?”
“Now.”
Eight.
He pulls back slightly, searching my eyes.
He sees my cocky grin and is amused by it.
He grabs my hand and we run.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
We make it to my room. The door slams shut behind us.
Four.
He holds my face in his hands.
Three.
