When the final refrain starts to swell, he lifts his head.
Looks at me like he’s waiting for permission and already knows the answer.
Then he kisses me.
Not hidden.
Not careless.
Not fast.
The kind of kiss that could ruin a girl for anyone else.
My fingers clutch his lapel. His hand flexes at my back. The curtain brushes softly against my arm. Somewhere beyond us, the ballroom keeps breathing and glittering and pretending the world is still normal.
It isn’t.
When he finally pulls away, both of us are breathing harder.
I look at him for one dazed second and whisper, “I think I’m ready to get out of here, my bad prince.”
His eyes flare.
He takes a shaky breath and lets out the smallest disbelieving laugh. “Is it weird that I’m trying very hard not to look too aroused to function in a tuxedo?”
That breaks me into helpless laughter.
I lift both my hands between us.
They’re trembling.
His gaze drops to them.
Then back to my face.
The humor fades.
“I don’t know how to say this,” I whisper.
He goes still instantly.
“Stella.”
I try again, because the words are there somewhere, lodged in the part of me that has never been this vulnerable and wanted at the same time.
“I’ve never…” My voice catches. God. “I’ve never been with anyone who made me want to.”
The silence after that is enormous.
His eyes widen.
Heat first.
Then shock.
Then something that looks almost wrecked.
“Why?” he says softly, and then, rougher, “Baby… you waited?”
