PLAYBOY PRINCESS (gxg) ✓

27. Paris Young

           So instead of taking another breath, instead of hesitating, Paris pushed open the two grand doors to the ballroom.

           There was violin music playing. Lively and high and thrumming. 

            But the song stuttered, as the attention of the crowd fell on Paris.

            At the top of the stairs, she felt—invincible.

           Powerful. 

           Beautiful.

           With every step, she became more confident. She bunched the folds of her crimson dress around her. The edges of her dress rustled against the stairs, a whisper of silk against marble.

            Paris knew what she looked like.

            Her hair was long and flowing down her back. Her strapless dress cupped her chest and tightened over her waist. The train of her gown cascaded like the molten petals of a drenched rose. 

            Out of all the people in the crowd, Rory was still turned away. Laughing at something Simon had said—or laughing at a joke she had made herself.

            When her head flicked up, her eyes sliding to the center of attention, they widened.

            At the bottom of the stairs, Paris paused.

            Rory's glossy chestnut hair was straight and sleek, twisted into a chignon. She was wearing a navy-dark suit, the edge of her shirt cut low over her tan chest.

            When she saw Paris, her soft lips parted.

            There was pure, arrogant desire in her stare. And combined with that, there was . . . it was a tender, endearing kind of wonder.

            Rory cut through the watching crowd like a knife.

           As though Paris was the only person in the room.

           The only girl in the world.

           "May I have this dance, Juliet?" Rory asked, with a slight bow.

           She held out her hand, and Paris didn't hesitate.

           "I wouldn't miss it for the world," Paris answered.

           The music began playing again, still a lively beat that strummed Paris's heartstrings. She felt awake, rippling with energy and life and—love. 

            "You're a terrible dancer," Rory said, laughing.

            "And you promised me skinny-dipping in a pink lake."

            Rory's eyes went glossy—hunger, desire. Her lips curved into a lush, unholy grin as she said, "We have to make it through tonight first."

            "Everybody is watching us," Paris said, and they were.

            The royals, the dukes, the duchesses—all the lords and ladies stole glances at them as Rory steered Paris in elegant circles over the dance floor.

            "I know," was all Rory said. A cocky grin.

            And then Paris surprised even herself by whispering, "Let's give them a show."

            Rory's grin turned crooked. Both dimples.

            When the song changed to something slow, deep, lovely, Rory's hands flattened over Paris's waist, the small of her back.

            Paris's fingers settled just over Rory's chest.

            She could hear the pounding of her heart.

            The rhythm of her heartbeat.

            And Paris surprised herself again. 

            By whispering, "I love you."

            Rory's touch became firm against Paris, and in the moment the song ended, she dipped Paris to the ground. Her back arched, supported only by Paris's touch.

            Gently, smoothly, Rory's palm slid over the center of Paris's chest.

            With her neck curved, her world upside down, Rory kissed Paris.

            And when Rory pulled back, lifting Paris back upright, she breathed into her ear, "I love you, too."

✺✺✺

How do we feel right now? 

Hopefully you don't hate me. Yet.

From the moon and back,
Sarai