Page 36 of Heathens
I laugh. “Well, regardless, I love this song.”
“Then we shouldreallydance then, huh?”
Before I can respond, he twirls me around, leading in such a way that I don’t stumble, I only follow. In fact, as he twists and turns me, dips and pulls me, I close my eyes and let him. And damn, he is a terrific dancer. I no longer have control of my body. I am completely at his mercy. I feel my dress flare out all around me with each turn, and as I giggle, I spy a few people watching and taking pictures of us out of my peripheral.
When the music stops, Salem dips me, his face above mine wild with excitement. We're both panting, completely intoxicated on each other, and it's only when the crowd begins to clap that I snap out of it. He tugs me into a standing position like I'm as light as a feather—which I most definitely am not—and my chest rises and falls as I look around. Salem bows and I have to keep from laughing. It's late, but the city is still awake and bustling. A few people offer money, but he turns them down, giving every one of them a smile, a handshake, and a thank you.
He will make an excellent priest one day, and while that thought makes me happy and proud, it also makes me sad in the most selfish way. He belongs to God, and I want him to belong to me.
I want him to belong to me. To be mine.
As the adoring crowd disperses—most of them women who fan themselves at the site of Salem’s sweat and dance moves—he turns to me, running his hands through his hair. His t-shirt rides up just barely, and my eyes follow the trail of hair to the tops of his jeans...
I have a feeling Notre Dame de Paris will be getting an influx of women once he starts leading daily mass.
“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” I ask, fanning myself. Even though it’s almost midnight, the air hasn’t cooled much since daytime, and the humidity doesn’t help.
“Dance class,” he says. “It’s a thing here.”
“Hmm,” I mumble, smiling and placing a finger on my lips as I lean back into the railing. “So, all Frenchman can dance like that? Shall I add it to the list of clichés?” He only grins.
Gah. Calm down, stupid heart.
“Let’s see,” I tease, holding my fingers out. “Eats frog legs and snails,” I start, pushing one finger down.
“Check,” he retorts, crossing his arms and watching me with bemusement.
“Charming and suave,” I say, ticking off another finger.
“That’s a given.” He smirks.
“Wears berets.”
He straightens. “Well, I'm half-Scottish, so I wear kilts instead.“
I swallow and push the thought of him wearing a kilt out of my mind.
Do not go there, Lily.
Smiling, I quirk my head. “Oh really? A kilt?” I shake my head and laugh. “Stop distracting me.” He laughs in response. “Buys baguettes,” I add, ticking off another finger. “What else am I missing?”
“French people are mean,” he interjects, shrugging.
“I don’t believe that. I’ve met so many nice people in Paris. And you—you’re—” I flick my eyes down his body and then back up to his face. “You’re, like,sonice.”
So eloquent, Lily.
“Well, we should probably take those seventeen pictures and develop them, huh?” He grabs my purse and hands it to me, looping his camera around his neck and taking a quick picture of me while I throw my hair into a ponytail.
“Hey,” I whine, swatting his arm. “The settings are off for this kind of lighting.”
“It's on automatic,“ he retorts, pointing to the small ‘A.'
“Ahh, you’re such a professional now, Salem.”
“I had the best teacher.” He smiles and offers his arm. “Shall we?”
I nod and link my arm with his. I guess now that we’ve hugged—danced—physical contact is no longer off the table. “Where are we going?”
