The town hall's grand hall pulsed with the afterglow of triumph, the air electric with laughter and the fizz of champagne corks popping like celebratory waves, the fairy lights above twinkling like stars in full sail. The gala had crested beyond dreams—$58K by the final tally, the council's matching grant all but sealed in handshakes and toasts, whispers of "Echoes Ignited" rippling through Harbor's End like the tide turning full. Tables groaned under half-eaten platters of oysters on ice and wild mushroom tarts, the band winding down from reels to languid ballads, couples swaying on the polished floor in a haze of silk and wool. Elara leaned against the bar, flute in hand, the sapphire gown's silk whispering against her skin as she watched Ronan across the room—his suit jacket slung over a chair, sleeves rolled, charming a cluster of donors with that low rumble of a laugh, his eyes finding hers every few beats, blue beacons cutting the crowd.
The night's magic hummed in her veins: their speech's sway, the pledges pouring like rain after drought, Victoria's bid a dismissed fog—her emerald shadow slipping out mid-toast, portfolio unopened, the $60K specter chased by the community's roar. But beneath the revelry, desire simmered—a slow burn from the alcove's rediscovery, the tower's vows, the midnight call's unraveling now woven to strength. Ronan's gaze lingered now, heavy with promise, and Elara felt the pull: bodies attuned, trust's mend a spark waiting for champagne's fuel.
He excused himself from the group—navy chief clapping his back with a "Signals strong, son"—and wove to her, parting the crowd like a keeper parting fog. "Thorne," he greeted, voice husky over the music, close enough for his breath to stir her curls, hand settling at her waist—warm through silk, thumb circling in subtle Morse: mine. The flute clinked as he took it from her, sipping deep before handing it back, lips brushing hers in the exchange—a tease of tongues, wine-tart and wanting.
"Gallagher," she countered, arching a brow, her free hand sliding to his chest, feeling the heart's gallop beneath cotton. "Donors dazzled? Or just plotting escapes?"
His grin crinkled eyes, but heat darkened them, fingers splaying lower on her hip, pulling her flush in the bar's shadowed curve. "Dazzled. But plotting? Always." The band struck a slow waltz then—fiddle keening soft, accordion sighing like sea breath—and he tugged her to the floor, bodies aligning seamless amid the sway: her arms looping his neck, his at her low back, guiding her through turns that ground hips subtle, silk sliding against wool. The hall blurred—Fiona twirling Mia in a tipsy reel, the council head toasting with raised arms—but narrowed to them: breaths mingling, curls brushing his jaw, the locket nestling in his open collar like a secret shared.
"You're glowing," he murmured, dipping her low—gown flaring, his hand splaying possessive on her thigh through the slit, thumb tracing inner seam in a stroke that drew a shiver. "The speech—your voice on her letters? Had the room—and me—hooked."
Elara laughed, righting in his arms, her nails grazing his nape in retaliation—teasing arcs that pulled a hiss from him. "And yours—Liam's logs? Raw, real. Pulled wallets... and hearts." She ground closer on the next turn, feeling his hardness stir against her, desire flaring hot amid the crowd's veil. The waltz's sway became foreplay: his knee nudging her thighs' part, her breasts brushing his chest with each rise, breaths quickening over the music's hush.
Champagne flowed freer as the night deepened—flutes refilled by circulating trays, Mia thrusting glasses with winks: "To beacons and sirens—keep the light lit!" Toasts circled: the navy chief's "For signals that save," Fiona's gruff "To echoes that don't fade." Elara and Ronan claimed a corner table then, the hall's energy a hum at their backs, his arm draped her shoulders, fingers tracing her arm in idle codes—love, stay, more. The wine warmed her from within, loosening limbs and lips, her hand on his thigh under the tablecloth—squeezing firm, inching higher in teasing strokes that drew his jaw clench, eyes darkening to midnight sea.
"Tell me," she prompted, sipping slow, the flute's stem cool between fingers, her foot hooking his calf—silk stocking sliding against wool. "The gala's magic—what's your wish on this tide?"
Ronan leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that shivered her skin, lips brushing her ear—hot breath, faint stubble grazing lobe. "Marry me." The words landed soft, not proposal but tease, laced with the night's revelry and deeper vows—the midnight call's together, the pier's dawn mend. "Not tonight, not with champagne and crowds. But when the stars align—tower beam as witness, Eliza's cove for vows. You in a gown like this, me in that suit you unbutton too slow." His hand slid to her knee under the table, fingers tracing up the slit—teasing lace's edge, circling heat that drew a gasp, her thighs parting instinctive.
Elara's pulse thundered, the tease igniting like fuse to powder—desire coiling tight, trust's flame leaping higher. "Yes," she gasped, the word a vow in kind, her hand covering his on her thigh—guiding higher, pressing his palm to core's warmth through silk. "A thousand tides from now—tower, cove, stars. But tonight?" She nipped his earlobe, voice husky over the band's swell. "Revelry's our foreplay."
His groan rumbled low, hand obeying her guide—fingers slipping beneath lace, stroking slow circles that arched her back, flute forgotten on the table as she bit her lip to muffle whimpers. The crowd swirled oblivious—Fiona leading a conga line, donors toasting the jar's brim—but the corner veiled them: his thumb on her peak, circling in time with the waltz's distant lilt; her free hand fisting his thigh, nails digging crescents through wool. Pleasure built stealthy, champagne's buzz amplifying each stroke—her hips rocking subtle, breaths ragged against his neck, his free arm banding her waist to steady the tremor.
Climax crested hushed—a shuddering wave, her cry muffled in his shoulder, body clenching around his fingers in pulsing heat. Ronan held her through, kissing her temple fervent, his own arousal straining against her hip—a promise banked for privacy. "God, El," he breathed, withdrawing slow, hand glistening as he tugged her gown smooth. "That gown—ruin and revelation."
She laughed, flushed and sated, stealing his flute for a sip—wine tasting of sin now. "Your suit—unbutton later." The tease pulled his grin, and they rose, arm-in-arm to the dance floor anew—the conga line snaking past, Fiona dragging them in with whoops: "Keepers and sirens—join the tide!"
Revelry swallowed them: hips swaying in the line's absurd rhythm, champagne splashed in toasts, Mia's confetti poppers bursting like stars. Ronan's hand never left hers—lacing tight through turns, pulling her close for stolen kisses amid the chaos: nips at her neck when the line looped, her grinding back against him in the crush, laughter bubbling over heat's simmer. The jar overflowed—$62K by ten, the council head sealing the match with a handshake: "Vote's formality—light's saved."
Cheers thundered, the band erupting in finale—fiddles wailing triumph—and Ronan pulled Elara to the hall's shadowed alcove, bodies flush against tapestry-draped wall, the crowd's roar a distant sea. "Marry me," he whispered again, not tease now but earnest—eyes holding hers in the dim, hand cupping her face, thumb tracing lip swollen from nips. "Tower vows, cove rings—when you're ready. But say yes, El. Be my echo, forever."
Tears pricked joyful, the night's magic cresting with his words—the midnight mend, the rival's fog burned away, trust's flame a hearth. "Yes," she breathed, kissing him fierce—tongues tangling desperate, hands roaming unchecked: hers shoving his shirt high, nails raking abs; his hiking her gown, palm splaying thigh to core, fingers delving deep in stroking claim. The alcove veiled them—music masking moans, shadows dancing like signals—as rhythm built urgent: her legs wrapping his waist, his thrusts grinding through barriers, friction sparking fire amid silk and wool.
Climax shattered synced—her clenching around his hand in waves, his spilling hot against her thigh in muffled groan—afterglow trembling in the wall's cradle, breaths fogging tapestry. "Forever," he vowed, forehead to hers, fingers lacing tight over hearts.
The revelry called them back—Fiona's whoop from the line, Mia's tray of shots—but they lingered, adjusting in touches: his thumb wiping her lip, her straightening his collar with a nip. Arm-in-arm to the fray, champagne flowing, dances turning wild—conga to two-step, his hand possessive at her waist, her laugh free in his ear.
Midnight tolled, the hall thinning to stragglers, and they slipped out—path to the tower winding starlit, hands intertwined, the night's wishes a vow etched in revelry's glow. In the keeper's room, flames rekindled proper: gowns and suits shed in trails up stairs, bodies bare in the lantern's prism—entry deep on the cot, rhythm a symphony of gasps and groans, hands overhead laced tight through swells. Climax crested starlit, cries echoing stone, afterglow spent in the beam's ghost-sweep.
Journal open amid sheets, Elara read Eliza's 1952 gala note: Harvest lights dance like our signals—Liam's gift, a locket sealed in fireworks. Revelry's vow: eternal, amid the crowd's cheer. E.
She added: Our gala revel—pledges sway, wishes whispered. Proposal tease amid dances; yes, a tide turning. Flames burn eternal.
Sleep entwined, the lighthouse's beam a distant wink—revelry's night a seal on forever, love's echo roaring under stars.