For she is not just a star.
She is a galaxy.
The brilliance of comet trails in her intricately piled curls. The twinkle of moondust in the barrettes that hold them up. The boldness of sunfire in her welcoming smile. And then the stars, so many of them, embroidered from gold threads into the froth of her diaphanous dress…
I rush faster toward the dance floor. Even faster. If I do not get to her—
But thank Christ, I do.
After I reiterate the gratitude aloud—my aversion to church does not preclude my respect for its holy son—Raegan tosses an unsteady laugh.
“Errr…pardon?” she asks, equally nervous—and utterly beautiful.
“I thought you might float away before I got here.” I seize one of her hands, just to assure that does not happen. “In the way that perfect fantasies often do.”
She darts her free hand up to the throat that stutters on air. “And you really want to keep claiming you’re a fighter instead of a poet?”
I take another small step toward her. The cloud of her skirts engulfs my leg. “I am a fighter to many, ma chérie—but a poet for only one.” Gently, I draw her trembling fingers to my lips. Beneath my kiss, they shiver even harder. I pull away. But not very far. “Am I overstepping? We are in public… I should have more of a care for your reputation and sensibilities.”
“Oh, don’t you dare let me go, Desperado.” She twists our grips until she is the one securing me tighter. “My sensibilities don’t know half of what they’re doing under all this stuff.”
That is entirely too good a reason to wrap my other hand around her waist. As I already suspect, there is no give of her flesh anymore, with her torso now cinched beneath a corset. But that damned lingerie is also part of the reason I pull her in so tight.
“Are you well, Rayonnement? Your color is adequate, though I cannot say for certain past your rouge. Your eyes are bright, your speech coherent. You do not seem ready to belch or vomit.”
Oh, but she definitely knows how to spit out a small laugh. “Gee, thanks.” And then a more hearty one. “Just so we’re even, you don’t look ready to hurl either.”
And now, when I need the cue the most, she refrains from any and all chuckles. I go still, wondering if I have cleared my figurative slate for another disastrous faux pas. Does she expect me to be actually hurling something now? If so, exactly what? And to where?
Concerns that I stow away, since that is exactly what she seems to do.
Making this moment more perfect than ever before. More fitting.
This decade, represented by all the special decorations and lighting…yes, it should be as foreign to me as the modern world outside the building, but there is so much more I recognize now. Definitely enough to let me settle into a theoretical easy chair. The themed prop sets with their horses and buggies. The moving pictures, staged to depict promenading citizens and verdant landscapes. The finely presented food and drink. Even the people themselves, behaving with gentler manners and regal actions.
“Bastien?”
I startle but only for a moment. “Hmmm? Yes, Miss Tavish? You are welcome, of course,” I add, directly addressing her previous quip, but she pierces right through my attempt at urbanity.
“What is it? You’re a million miles away.”
I do not growl or snap or defend. My point is better made another way. By transforming our handclasp so I control it and cinch into her waist again. Not by a great deal. Just enough so her breath catches once more. And mine with it.
“I am right here with you, magnificent woman.” I husk it slowly. Deliberately. “And I know that so clearly because there is nowhere in space and time that I wish to be more.”
Her lips purse. “We both know that’s not—”
I tug at her again—so forcefully that our chests collide. And our hearts share their beats. And our bodies exchange a hot, heavy pulse. Oh yes, even through all our costume layers. Oh yes, even with all these people surrounding us.
Oh yes.
Oh yes…
Thank Christ—perhaps not so thoroughly this time—for how the musicians in the corner break from their quieter repertoire and begin a lush waltz. As the couples around us frame properly for the dance, I reluctantly step back to do the same.
Raegan sneaks the tip of her tongue between her gorgeous lips, readying for the same but also not relishing the idea. Quickly, I take consolation from that.
But once the dance officially begins, my bloodstream pumps one unimpeachable thought to my swirling senses. It is not ready to give up its new flames. Not by a single degree.
The rigor of the dance is no help. Yes, the rigor.
I move better with battle cries instead of music, especially when struggling not to step on a woman’s skirts while my fixating on the steady throb in her neck. On the beats that flow fresh color beneath her topaz pendant and then down…farther. To the place where her decolletage meets the graceful rise of her breasts. To where I want to lower that fabric froth and taste the smooth flesh beneath…
I clear my throat. Pointedly. Attempting any dance in this growing…condition…let alone a fucking waltz, is like asking one’s pants to become their unique torture devices.
I have to focus on something else. Right away.
The witless boor from earlier. The inspiring grandeur of this room. Subways. Busses. Feeling so lost for so many days…
Feeling so found every time Raegan Tavish has reentered my atmosphere.
Especially right now.
At last, a thought I hope she can decipher on my face. When she seems to do just that, letting me know with an uptick at one side of her mouth, my desperation dissipates. My steps smooth out. Better words—my clunky poetry, just for her—brim to my own lips.
“Rayonnement.”
The other edge clicks up, and I am nearly back to missing a step. Or ten. Before she takes the stumble with me, I rush on.
“The word has always been perfect for you, Raegan…but now it is a struggle to say it.” I attempt to shake my head. “The word simply does no justice to how you shine tonight. Not just…all this.” I indicate toward her sparkling gown with my head. “But…this.” And then funnel my focus on her face alone. I must appear more potshotten than any other male in the room, but I am past caring. I only need more of her enchanting face. More of its freckled sweetness and bright, attentive light. Such brilliant life…
“You ever stop to think that you’re looking at a lot of reflection, buddy?” she murmurs with adorable ease. “Because you clean up pretty well yourself, Bastien De Leon.”
I cock my head back, carefully regarding her. “Which does not fully explain your quizzically themed curiosity.”
“Curiosity?”
“Do I have that word incorrect, as well?”
“Maybe not,” she confesses. “Well, not completely.” An impish expression frolics across her face. “I just didn’t think I’d like you so much with the totally clean face.”
I join her in a soft laugh. “My face is usually clean, mademoiselle.” And because I cannot resist, I poise my eyebrows with salacious intent. “Unless the…mess…is worth it.”
“Hey!” She pouts. “Good thing we’re occupied with dancing, Monsieur De Leon. I don’t have time to pull out my fan and—”