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“They love me. But they also think this fucking TV show will be good for me.”
“What, like it’ll build character? Because trust me, you have enough of that.”
He burst into another peal of laughter, and it sent shivers up my spine. Watching him grin, just like when he was asleep, took years off his face. He was beautiful no matter what, but when he looked happy, he was ethereal.
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, I think you definitely have enough character,” I told him honestly. “Though you could smile more. And laugh. Your laugh is fucking beautiful.” Oh fuck, why did I say that.
He went quiet, and I followed suit. After a beat, he used his hands to push his legs to the floor, and then he shifted over alittle. Then a little more. He was touching my thigh, and I knew he couldn’t feel it, but he was watching where the space between us had disappeared.
“You’re not what I expected,” he eventually said.
My breath caught in my chest. “Better or worse?”
He looked up at my face, dark eyes catching mine. “Different. It’s not a bad thing. You’re…strange.”
“I don’t mind being strange. Better than what most people think.”
He lifted a hand, his fingers hovering near my jaw. I waited, holding my breath to see if he would touch me. He did, but not there. His touch dropped to my collarbone, where I had a black widow tattoo. “I wish you thought better of yourself.”
“My therapist says the same thing. And most of the time, I do.” I stopped, then shook my head and amended, “I try.” Leaning back a bit, I recalled the list I was busy making for my therapy homework. “I’m smart—even though I never went to real school. I’m funny when I don’t try.” Those were the two things I’d managed about myself that day. “I made you laugh and feel comfortable when you thought the night was going to be shit.” That was one thing.
Camillo frowned at me. “What are you doing?”
Flushing, I glanced away. “Sorry, uh…my therapist gives me homework when I’m having a hard week. She makes me think of a number of things that I like about myself and a number of things I do for other people to make their lives better.”
He stared at me for a long beat. His hand was still touching my tattoo. “You got me a ramp.”
“That’s bare minimum. Something I already fucked up with,” I said, reminding him of the café.
His smile twitched up a little higher. “It should be bare minimum. But it usually isn’t. You wanted to see me, and you made that possible. It counts, Aleric.”
Jesus, the way he said my name when it wasn’t full of hate or disdain. I forced myself to look up into his eyes. God, they were so intense.
Camillo licked his lips, then moved his touch up the side of my neck. I shivered, terrified to move. I had no idea what was happening—what he was doing, what he wanted. What I wanted, except I knew I wanted more of this.
I wanted him to shove me over and pin me to the sofa, which was wild because I was pretty sure in spite of this evening, we still didn’t like each other very much. Then again, I’d had sex feeling a lot worse about a person than I did right now.
But…was this going to lead to that? I had no idea how he—ah—did any of that, and I was too terrified to ask.
“Aleric,” he said. Now, my name sounded like a prayer on his tongue.
“Your Highness.”
“I hate the way you say that,” he murmured, leaning in closer. I could feel his breath on my cheeks.
“I can stop.”
“Don’t,” he whispered. He was close now. The smallest push forward and we’d be kissing. I could almost feel the movement of his lips and jaw against my own. “Say it again.”
“Your Highness.”
He was blurry this close up, but I saw his eyes close, and then his hand tightened against my neck, and suddenly, all the space between us was gone. He was kissing me. It was a tender press, but only for a second. Then I groaned, and his lips parted. Mine followed his, and his warm, wet tongue slid against mine. He tasted like spices from our dinner and something else entirely.
Something so…him.
I shivered and reached for him, unable to stop myself, pressing my fingers into his ribs. He let out a heavy, full groan.