The way he’s staring down at me and the fact that I can feel the taut muscles on his chest is making my head swim. He brings the back of my hand to his mouth, pressing his pillow-soft lips to the top.
Holy mother of god.
My eyes close for a second, savoring the feeling, but when they open, Oliver’s looking at me expectantly. But all I can do is smile.He kissed my hand.
I giggle and blink a few times quickly.
Am I batting my eyelashes at him? I think I am.
Oliver grins as his eyes discreetly tick down to the script in my hand. But it isn’t until the raise of his brow accompanies his look that I catch on.
Oh crap. The play.
I suck in a breath, standing a little straighter as I lift the paper close to my face. Mostly to hide my embarrassment.
“‘Good worshipper—’”Oh my god, why does my voice sound like that ... all husky and sex-phone-operator-y.I clear my throat. “‘You’re too harsh on your own hand, as it shows a perfectly polite devotion by holding mine.’”
I might be reading, but Oliver’s leading, because he stretches out his fingers, making our hands press together as I finish, “‘After all, pilgrims touch the hands of saints, and the hands kiss when their palms are brought together.’”
Honestly, I don’t even know what Shakespeare’s saying. I cheated and ChatGPT’d this whole class, but as my arm slowly lowers and I peek over the paper, he smiles at me and I decide right there on the spot that Shakespeare’s a genius poet.
Because Oliver’s smile makes me feel like he’s known me his whole life.
He steps in closer to me. It makes my stomach tingle from the wings of butterflies releasing.
“‘Yes, but don’t the saints and the worshippers have lips too?’”
Lips . . . I have lips.
He’s nodding, so I follow along, nodding too, until my brain catches up again.
“‘Yes,’” I say on a heavy breath, remembering the line. “‘Pilgrim, lips that they should use for prayer.’”
Please, god, hear this prayer. They say never meet your heroes, but please let him be a good kisser. If you ruin this for me ...
Oliver smirks, gently tugging me closer so our bodies are flush. “‘Well then, dear saint, let our lips do what our hands are doing.’” He looks to our palms, pressed out beside us now. “‘They’re praying for something after all, a kiss, so their faith doesn’t turn into despair.’”
My chest brushes his as my response is said in almost a whisper: “‘Saints don’t act first, although they may respond to prayers.’”
I blink, staring at a dark beauty mark by his right eye. It’s flawless, like him.
Oliver takes his hand from mine, letting mine drift down to his elbow as his fingertips gently brush my jaw.
“‘Then don’t move while I get my prayers answered.’”
Everything happens in wonderfully slow motion. His head lowers to my upturned chin. Chemistry crackles between us. A soft breath falls from between my lips as his part. My eyes begin to shutter as the warmth of him tickles my skin. He’s less than an inch away, the softness of his mouth hovering over mine.
“Cut.”
I gasp, far too loudly to be covert, but Oliver doesn’t move.
Our mouths stay hovered, shaky breaths mingling, before I swear to god I hear “Screw it,” and then he kisses me.
Act II
Mixed Signals and Grand Gestures ...
Oliver
