Page 35 of The Drama King

"The audience needs to believe Romeo would die for this moment," I said, my other hand coming to rest at her waist, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric of her uniform.

"Would he?" she challenged me.

"Without question."

We were so close now. Close enough that when she exhaled shakily, I felt it against my lips. Her hands had somehow ended up pressed against my chest, not pushing away but resting there, feeling my heartbeat.

"This is just acting," she said, but it sounded like a question. The honesty of that question shocked us both. Her eyes widened,and I saw myself reflected there—not the cruel Alpha I'd been playing, but something raw and hungry and real.

"Excellent work, you two!" Professor Williamson's voice shattered the moment. "That's exactly the kind of chemistry the scene requires. Take five, then we'll work on the actual kiss."

Vespera stepped back quickly, her cheeks flushed, her scent a confused tangle of arousal and alarm. She fled to the water fountain, and I stood there, trying to understand what had just happened.

When we resumed, the tension was unbearable. Every accidental touch sent sparks through me. When she spoke Juliet's lines about being too quickly won, her voice carried real uncertainty. When I promised Romeo's devotion, the words felt like vows.

"The kiss," Williamson reminded us. "It should feel inevitable. Like gravity."

Vespera's breath hitched. "Okay."

I moved closer, one hand at her waist, the other cupping her face. She was trembling slightly, but she didn't pull away. Her hands came to rest on my shoulders.

"'Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged,'" I quoted, leaning in.

"'Then have my lips the sin that they have took,'" she whispered back.

We were a breath apart. I could taste her exhale, sweet and nervous. Her fingers tightened on my shoulders.

"We don't have to," I said quietly, for her ears only. "Not if you're not comfortable."

She searched my face, looking for the trick, the trap. "This week you've been..."

"I know." My thumb stroked her cheek without conscious thought. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" The question was barely audible.

"Because you don't deserve it. Any of it."

Her eyes filled with tears she quickly blinked away. "Don't. Don't be kind to me if you're just going to be cruel again tomorrow."

The truth of that shot me through the heart. She was right. I couldn't be both. I had to choose.

"I won't be," I promised, not sure which I was promising but meaning it completely. "Not to you. Not anymore."

She studied me for a long moment, then nodded slightly. Permission.

When I kissed her, it was soft, careful—nothing like the dominating claim I'd been instructed to make. Her lips were warm and pliant, and she made a small sound that went straight through me. My hand tightened at her waist, pulling her closer, and she melted into me, her fingers curling into my shirt.

For a moment, we both forgot where we were. Forgot the watching eyes, the assignment, the impossibility of this. There was just the taste of her, the feel of her, the rightness of it that defied everything I'd been taught about hierarchy and designation.

When we parted, we were both breathing hard. Her lips were slightly swollen, her pupils dilated. She looked as stunned as I felt.

"That wasn't acting," she said, almost accusingly.

"No," I admitted. "It wasn't."

She pressed her fingers to her lips, looking genuinely shaken. "You taste like cedar and whiskey."

"You taste like honey." The words came out rougher than intended.