At last, he opens his eyes and looks over in my direction, starting at my feet. He seems satisfied with them before he moves to my knees. I wore a skirt today. Denim. Kinda short. His gaze moves higher, up my thighs before continuing over my stomach, my breasts, then onto my neck and finally, my face.
He looks at my mouth for a few seconds then … oh, God … he looks into my eyes. I gasp as I feel our energies connect. It’s like I’m falling into him and absorbing him at the same time.
I can see him trying not to be scared, but he is. For a moment, I think he’s going to run. His body goes rigid while a flash of panic lights his eyes. Then he exhales, and I see Romeo emerge, intense and desperate. He’s channeling his emotions into the character. Using the fear. Transforming it.
I look at him through Juliet’s eyes, and he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Yesterday afternoon we were screaming at each other. But now …
Now, he’s everything.
We move toward each other. My skin is alive with fluttering excitement. My body, filled with expectation. His eyes burn into mine, deep and intense. When he stops in front of me, I can barely breathe.
He’s looking at me like I’m beautiful. Like I’m some miracle of nature that was made just for him.
I need to touch him, to feel that he’s real and here and wants me, but I know Juliet wouldn’t. So I stand there and drink him in. His strong jaw and high cheekbones. His beautiful eyes and riotous hair.
All his parts have their own unique beauty, but when they’re added together, he’s magnificent beyond my ability to describe.
The fear is still in his eyes, lurking, but he pushes through it. His hand comes up to my face. He touches me gently, but my reaction is intense. His eyelids flutter as he strokes my cheek. There’s heat under my skin, and it builds with every soft pass of his fingers. His fear peeks out a little more, flickering behind his resolve.
His attention is fixed on my mouth, and he clears his throat before he murmurs, “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch … with a tender kiss.”
The words are formal and archaic, yet the way my body reacts to them is timeless.
His fingers are still on my cheek as he leans down, slowly. All I can see are his lips, parted and soft. I know that Juliet would pull away, but I don’t want to.
I remember my purpose and remove his hand from my face. I hold it and softly stroke his fingers.
“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch. And palm to palm … is holy palmers’ kiss.”
I press our hands together, and my voice is airy. My rhythm’s off. I can’t think straight. He’s so close I can smell him—soap, and cologne. The sweet scent of chocolate on his breath.
I can feel him in every part of me, and my hands tremble.
He brings his other hand up to cover mine, then caresses it. The soft hush of skin moving against skin is the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. The intense current that passes between our hands shimmers in my blood.
It must affect him as well, because his voice becomes low and quiet. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?”
I can feel the vibration of his voice against my face.
“Ay, pilgrim,” I answer, as he caresses and weaves his fingers between mine, stroking the soft skin there and making me shudder. “Lips that they must use in prayer.”
“O, then, dear saint,” he says, focusing on my mouth again, “let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
The intensity of his energy is filling me up. I barely have enough air to speak.
“Saints do not move,” I whisper, “though grant for prayers’ sake.”
“Then move not,” he murmurs as he moves closer, “while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.”
I hold my breath as his lips get lower, suspended above mine, so far away from where I want them to be. I’m just about to close my eyes and savor the moment when he stops. He blinks and shakes his head. His grip tightens on my hands.
Ethan, no.
He squeezes his eyes shut and makes a frustrated, strangled noise.
“Mr. Holt?” Erika calls from the auditorium. “That’s your cue to kiss her. Is there a problem?”
He drops my hands and steps back. The fear he was trying so hard to suppress has broken free. It fills his expression and bunches his muscles.
“I told you I couldn’t,” he says, his voice is tight with panic. “I told you both.”
“Mr. Holt?”
He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched. “Why does no one ever fucking listen to me?”
He strides off into the wings, and although Erika calls after him, he doesn’t stop.
I start to follow, but Erika motions for me to wait.
“Cassie,” she says as she comes onstage to join me, “be careful with him. He clearly associates emotional intimacy with painful consequences, and it’s possibly a trigger for much deeper issues. I have no doubt he can do this role, but he needs to be convinced. Realistically, you’re the only one who can help him.”
“I don’t know about that. Our usual form of communication is screaming at each other.”
She smiles. “Haven’t you noticed you’re the only person in the whole class he makes an effort with? He barely talks to anyone else.”