family. I can’t promise that it will ever be quiet, but I can promise that you will never be so loved as when you come home to us.”
Cheers ring out, glasses clink. Elliot bends to hug them both, and then returns to his seat beside me.
Beneath the table, he takes my hand. His is shaking.
“That was awesome,” I tell him.
He bends, smiling as he takes a bite of his salmon with his free hand. “Yeah?”
I lean over, press my lips to his cheek. His skin is warm and a little rough now, like the mildest sandpaper. It’s all I can do to not bare my teeth and bite him the tiniest bit. “Yeah.”
When my lips come away from him, they’ve left twin petals of lipstick. I reach up, reluctantly smearing it away with my thumb. I sort of liked it there. Elliot continues to eat, smiling at me as I fuss over him, and never in my entire life have I felt so blissfully like someone’s wife.
The feeling is bubbly, like being drunk from a shot—the way it warms the path from throat to stomach. But here, everything feels warm. I pull his hand in mine closer, onto my lap, high on my thigh. He pauses with his fork en route to his mouth, sending me a sly smile, but then takes the bite and chews, leaning to his left to listen when Andreas taps his shoulder.
The music begins for the first dance, and Andreas and Else stand, moving out into the center of the room, dancing solo for only a few bars before the DJ calls everyone out. And then Miss Dina and Mr. Nick are out there, and then Else’s parents, too. Elliot looks over at me, eyebrow raised in obvious question . . . and here we go.
He leads me to a spot near the center of the dance floor, pulling me with an arm around my waist until I’m right up against him: chest to chest, stomach to stomach, hips to hips.
We sway. We’re not even really dancing. But our proximity sets my body on fire, and I can feel what it does to him, too. Right up against me, he’s half-hard, his posture exposing the hunger he feels.
I want closer, too. With one hand clasped in his, the other on his shoulder slides around his neck, then—slowly—into his hair. Elliot tucks our joined hands against his chest and then bends, pressing his cheek to mine.
“I love you,” he says. “I’m sorry that I can’t help my body’s reaction to you.”
“It’s okay.” I count out fifteen heartbeats before I’m able to add, “I love you, too.”
He reacts to this with a tiny catch in his breath, a slight tremor in his shoulders—it’s the first time he’s ever heard me say it.
“You do?”
My cheek rubs along his when I nod. “I always have. You know that.”
His lips are close enough to my ear that they brush against the shell when he asks, “Then why did you leave me?”
“I was hurt,” I tell him. “And then I was broken.”
Now he reacts. His feet come to a stop on the floor. “What broke you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it here.”
He pulls back, eyes flickering between mine as if there might be different messages communicated there. “Do you want to leave?”
I don’t know. I do want to leave . . . but not to talk.
“Whenever you can,” I say. “Later is fine.”
“Where?”
Anywhere. All I know is that I need to be alone with him. Need to in this restless, straining way. I want to be alone with him.
I want him.
“I don’t care where we go.” I slide my other hand up his chest, around his neck and into his hair. Elliot’s breath catches when he realizes what I’m doing: pulling him down to kiss me.
His lips come over mine in a fever, hands moving to cup my face, to hold me close as if my kiss is a delicate, fleeting thing.
His kiss is an aching prayer; devotion pours from him. He sucks my bottom lip, my top, tilting his head for more, and deeper, before I pull back, reminding him with a tiny flicker of my eyes where we are and just how many people have noticed.
Elliot doesn’t care about them. He takes my hand, leading me down the steps from the lit dance floor and into the gardens.
Our shoes swish through wet grass. I pull my dress up into my fist, jogging after him.