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“Wow,” Maxwell exhaled roughly as he watched Bertrand’s quickly retreating figure. “He was really mad this time.”
Riley took a large step closer to Maxwell. “Yeah, he was, wasn’t he?”
“Sorry about that, I don’t know what he was thinking. It’s obviously not your fault Liam chose to dance with Olivia.”
“I don’t know about that.” Riley took another step, her hand brushing Maxwell’s as she faced him. “It definitely was my fault that I chose to dance with you.” Riley grinned cheekily up at him, leaning forward so their chests were touching.
Maxwell’s breath fanned her warm cheeks, the air hitting her in uneven puffs.
“Riley, what are you doing?”
“Nothing. We’re just talking, Maxwell.” Their noses made contact. Maxwell froze, eyelashes fluttering.
“What kind of talking is this?”
Riley kept her arms at her sides, resisting the urge to rest her palm on his chest.
Their lips were now touching.
Riley smirked, looking cross-eyed into Maxwell’s eyes. “I call it… really close talking.”
Maxwell smiled softly. “Really close talking?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think this is an American custom.”
“Nope. Just for you.”
“You want me dead, don’t you?”
It was a funny assortment of feelings; the feather-light pressure of his lips on hers, the friction from talking softly and slowly into one another, the urge to smash the rest of her face into his, and the knowledge that Bertrand could storm in at any moment.
“Never.”
Riley could feel Maxwell’s grin more than she could see it. Her vision was hazy and her head was full of him and his arms snaking their way around her waist.
“How brazen of you, Lord Beaumont.”
“Certainly not as brazen as you, my lady.”
Riley couldn’t argue with that. Losing any semblance of restraint, she joyfully resigned herself to pressing her lips entirely unto his.