13. A Crown of Cypress #2
I thought about the way she'd looked at me. The thing she'd started to say, about cypress, about crowns, about people who would never wear them.
"What's a crown of cypress?" I asked.
Jasper's hand tightened on my waist. The reaction was subtle, barely perceptible, but I felt it.
"That’s Eli’s domain," he said lightly. Too lightly. “Speak of the devil.”
He spun me around, right into Eli’s arms
"My turn."
Eli stepped right into the dance, his expression calm, his eyes steady on mine. He was wearing a crown too, silver ribbon woven into something architectural, precise. It suited him.
Jasper hesitated for just a moment. Then he stepped back, winking at me. "Don't let him bore you with historical facts."
"I make no promises," Eli said, and took my hand.
Dancing with Eli was different. Where Jasper was warmth and momentum, Eli was stillness and intention. He held me like I was something valuable, something he was afraid to break. His hand on my waist was light but certain.
"You're a good dancer," I said.
"I've had practice." A small smile. "There have been a lot of festivals."
"How many?"
"Enough to know the songs by heart." He turned me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "You're curious about the crowns."
It wasn't a question.
"Miss Delphine started to tell me something. About cypress. About people who will never wear—"
"The crown of cypress is old," Eli said carefully. "Older than the festival. It's worn for... significant occasion. When one successfully completes a trial of sorts."
"A trial?"
"Hmm, yeah, it was an initiation ritual to make someone…family." His fingers traced a pattern on my waist, and I shivered.
"Like a made man? You know, like the mafia?"
"I guess that analogy works." His eyes held mine.
"I’ve always thought of it as more of a knight ship, you know, that allowed one to become a part of nobility.
Or marriage, marital unions also make one family.
The festival crowns are a way of honoring that tradition.
The original festival was a day when those of the big houses served the common folk—"
Callum didn't ask for permission. He simply cut in, his hand replacing Eli's on my waist, his body inserting itself between us with the easy authority of someone who expected the world to rearrange itself around him.
"You were monopolizing her," he said to Eli.
"I was explaining the crowns."
"You were lecturing." Callum's hand pressed into the small of my back, pulling me closer than either of his brothers had dared. "She doesn't need a history lesson. She needs to dance."
He moved differently than both of them, not Jasper's playful ease or Eli's careful precision, but something rawer.
More primal. His hand settled on the small of my back, fingers spread wide, and the heat of his palm burned through the thin cotton of my dress like a brand.
My breath caught. My spine arched involuntarily, pressing into that heat before I could stop myself.
His body guided mine without asking, without waiting, and somehow my feet knew where to go.
Knew to step when he stepped, to yield when he pressed forward, to follow where he led.
My body was betraying me in a thousand small ways, responding to his proximity with an enthusiasm my brain hadn't authorized.
The music had shifted again, something with more pulse, more heat. A slow, throbbing rhythm that seemed to sync with my heartbeat. Or maybe my heartbeat was syncing with it. I couldn't tell anymore.
Callum pulled me closer. Close enough that the buttons of his shirt brushed against my chest with every breath.
Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell cedar and that wildness, something earthier, something that made my mouth water and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
His thigh slid between mine as we moved, and the pressure of it, firm and deliberate, sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
I gasped before I could stop myself. Felt my nipples harden against the thin lace of my bra.
Knew, with mortifying certainty, that he could feel it too, pressed against him the way I was.
His hand tightened on my back. His fingers flexed, just once, and that small movement sent heat pooling low in my belly.
"People are staring," I said. My voice came out breathless, rougher than I intended.
"Let them stare."
His voice was a low rumble against my ear, close enough that I felt his breath on my neck, warm and deliberate. Goosebumps erupted down my arms, down my spine, spreading across my skin like wildfire. I shivered despite the heat, and his arm tightened around me, drawing me impossibly closer.
Our hips were flush now. Moving together.
The friction of it was maddening, a slow grind that matched the pulse of the music, that sent wave after wave of sensation radiating outward from everywhere we touched.
I could feel him against my stomach. Feel the evidence that I wasn't the only one affected by this, by the hard and unmistakable bulge in his jeans.
My face went hot. Other parts of me went hotter.
I should step back. I should create space. I should remember that we were in public, that half the town was watching, that this was the kind of dancing that got people talked about for decades in small Southern towns.
I didn't step back.
Instead, my hand slid from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. My fingers found the short hair there, soft and thick, and I watched his jaw clench. Watched his nostrils flare. Watched something flash in his eyes, gold in the darkness, there and gone so fast I almost missed it.
His hand slid lower on my back. Settled at the curve where my spine met the swell of my ass. Not quite grabbing, not quite innocent. A claiming. A question. A promise of what those hands could do if we were anywhere but here.
My thighs clenched around his. I felt myself grow slick, felt that telltale pulse between my legs that meant my body had made decisions my mind was still debating.
"Is this some kind of competition?" I managed, though the words came out more like a plea than an accusation. "Taking turns with the new girl?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me with those dark eyes, endless and hungry, while his thumb traced a slow circle on my lower back.
The touch was featherlight, barely there, and somehow more devastating than if he'd grabbed me outright.
Every nerve ending in my body seemed to migrate to that single point of contact, straining toward him, desperate for more.
The music swelled. He spun me out, then pulled me back, and when my body collided with his again, we both exhaled. A shared sound. Raw. Wanting.
His forehead dropped to mine. I could feel his breath coming faster now, could feel the tension coiled in every line of his body, the restraint that was costing him something.
His lips were inches from mine. I could see the texture of them, full and firm, could imagine exactly how they'd feel crushing against my mouth.
"Not a competition," he said finally. His voice was gravel and smoke, scraping over my skin like a physical touch. "We don't compete."
"Then what is this?"
His hand slid up my spine, slow and deliberate, mapping the curve of me through my dress. When he reached the bare skin at the nape of my neck, I shuddered. Actually shuddered, my whole body trembling against his like I'd touched a live wire.
"This," he said, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear, "is inevitability."
The word landed in my chest and stayed there, heavy and warm. Inevitability. Like gravity. Like the tide. Like something that had been decided long before either of us had a say.
The music shifted again, faster now, but neither of us sped up. We moved in our own bubble of heat and tension, his body pressed to mine, my body melting into his, every point of contact burning like a fever I didn't want to break.
I was going to do something stupid. I could feel it building, the recklessness, the wanting, the absolute inability to care about consequences when his hands were on me like this and his eyes were looking at me like that.
"Callum," I whispered. I didn't know if it was a warning or an invitation. Maybe both.
His grip tightened. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the dark of his irises until there was nothing but black and gold and hunger.
"I know," he said. "I know."
But he didn't let go.
And I didn't ask him to.
"I'm patient." His mouth brushed my ear as he spoke, and goosebumps rippled down my neck. "I can wait for what I want."
I should have had a clever response. Something dry, something deflecting, something to break the tension building between us like a physical force.
Instead, I heard myself say: "And what do you want?"