None of this belongs to me, it belongs to Meg Cabot and Disney.

Sometimes, when they dance he won't relinquish his grip on her. His hands fit in the soft curves of her side, the pads of his fingers pressing appreciatively, entirely inappropriately against her spine. He has learned to dance with the awkwardness of ball gowns, evening gowns and now, a Chanel suit. They melt together in a pool of black, with that tingling sensation of being an illegality. Of being wrong.

The music dies with a definite silence, which fills everywhere in the cavernous ballroom but the space between them. For there exists, virtually, no space between the two bodies.

Older this time but no less familiar. Remembering a night of futile passion, wary of it's reoccurrence but willing it nonetheless.

"Thank you," she manages with a smile, languid and unsure. But his eyes are resolute. She has learned to read him over the years. Especially those eyes.

"My pleasure."

She is absolutely sure he is pressing her against him and the low growl of his voice is deliciously disconcerting. His pleasure, her pleasure - they are one in the same.

"I don't want someone to break the spell," he kisses the side of her neck. Not the way friends should but in the way a lover might, if she had ever had a lover. She feels as if she is at his mercy and willingly, happily.


She tries to remain aloof, turning her head at a slight angle so that he has to remove his lips from her neck. He runs his hands over her arms, onto her shoulders and down her back to rest again, on her abdomen.

"Spell," he mutters, "Like there's only two people in the world that have waited for this for a lifetime."

"For what?"

She anticipates it with desperation, with the tingling sensation of lust- which hasn't been in her for years- travelling through her.

"For this…"

He lifts her hands from where they rest on his and kisses her fingers, each in turn, then her wrists - his beard grazing against the skin of her wrist. Which suddenly seems to be the nerve centre of her body. It is the most erotic, romantic thing she think she has ever experienced.

"Your hands are beautiful," he mutters.

She laughs lightly for she has no idea what else to do.

"Are you laughing, Your Majesty?"

He is smiling slightly but she cannot help but feel embarrassed.

"Clarisse," she realises her voice is low, "Call me Clarisse…"

"Call me your lover then," he whispers and there is no trace of jest in his tone, no humour. In fact, she has never head such a bold, yet glorious request in her life.

She turns in his arms, "What a bold request."

He laughs slightly, and rests his lips on her jaw line, "You said what I was thinking,"

"That doesn't make it anymore acceptable," she laughs gently, resting her head against his shoulder.

" Nothing, my darling," he whispers quietly, "Is ever acceptable."

He runs his fingers through her hair.

"But we could always give it a go…"

She giggles, rather girlishly, and shakes her head.

"Some time."

She knows how this conversation has to end, it's the way it ended 20 years before.

"Well," he steps back but the adorable, loving smile doesn't fade from his face. However, his eyes glitter with disappointment, "I did try…"

He bows slightly, and turns to leave.


"Yes, Your Majesty," he nods, "Clarisse."

"Don't stop trying."

Something that was lying about.

I hope you liked it.