When I finally pull away and we find the rhythm of the waltz again, I’m aware peripherally that my father’s decided I’ve suffered enough. He’s out on the floor with Maman. My brothers join with their partners. Then Jean-Claude’s parents, Jean-Claude, and Juliet. More and more couples fill the floor, but I don’t see them. I see only Bea.

“You’re staring at me,” she says.

“Yes.”

She smiles, blushing prettily. “Do I look like a red-mouthed clown?”

I laugh. “No. Why would you?”

“So Jules was right,” she says enigmatically. “She swiped on that lipstick and swore I wouldn’t be able to wipe it off if I wanted to.”

Bea licks those red lips, and it makes my body burn awake. The thought of her lush mouth parted in pleasure as I taste and tease her, then traveling my body, wrapped tight around my—

“Jamie?”

I startle. “Hmm?”

Bea tips her head. “I just stepped on your toes. Twice. And you didn’t say anything.”

I smile and steal another kiss. “Didn’t even feel it.”

She eyes me suspiciously as I spin her in a tight, fast turn while the waltz builds to its dramatic end. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking after we finish this waltzing nonsense, we get the hell out of here.”

Her eyes brighten. “Really?”

I kiss her again, then lower her in a dramatic dip that makes her laugh. “Really.”

—

We’re giddy, delirious with laughter, as we make our escape and rush down the front steps of my parents’ house to the limousine. I throw open the door, and Bea gasps as I haul her onto my lap. Pushing the privacy screen button, I kiss her frantically, my hands tangling in her hair, our tongues meeting in a frenzied dance that puts our waltzing to shame.

“Wait,” she says, wrenching her mouth from mine. “Honk, please,” she tells the driver, rolling down the window and yelling out of it, “Smell ya later, assholes!”

Laughing, I throw an arm out, middle finger high in the air.

Bea shrieks with delight at that and kisses me again, straddling my lap.

Then suddenly she’s quiet as she slips her fingers inside my bow tie and undoes the knot. When she pops open the first two buttons of my shirt, I draw in a deep, calming breath, and a swell of tenderness fills me. She sensed it, how I was slowly suffocating in there, how hard it was to breathe.

“Better?” she asks, her fingertips tracing my collarbone, my throat, the line of my jaw.

My grip on her waist tightens. I pull her closer and nod. “Much better.”

Her touch continues its journey over my cheekbones, my nose, my forehead, down my temple. When she traces the shell of my ear, I let out a groan of pleasure. “What are you doing?”