I wrote an entire chapter again because I can’t ever stop in the middle of chapters like this. It was either write the whole thing now or come home late after work and write the other half, and I wasn’t keen on staying up super late on a Sunday. Saving it until tomorrow would have ruined the flow and I would have had to start all over.
Oliver takes my hand and leads me to the guest bathroom. “I want to get those cuts cleaned up before I leave. If you greet your parents with them tomorrow, I’m just going to have to come over here and bewitch them all over again.”
I don’t want that, so I let him lead me into the bathroom and hop up on the counter. Oliver finds a washcloth in the bottom left draw, wets it with soap and begins gingerly dabbing at my face while I try not to wince.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, trying to distract myself from how close he is. Funny. It’s never bothered me before. I’m just burnt out, I guess.
“A little stiff, but I’m fine,” he replies.
“What happened to you?”
A wry smile comes to his face. “You saw what happened to me.”
I roll my eyes. “I mean what did you break, smart ass.”
Oliver chuckles. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t remember anything between hitting the ground and Kole and Kellen fixing me up. It was probably worse than it looked, seeing how easy it was for them.” He flips the washcloth over to the dry side and wipes the cuts. “How are you?”
I have to think about it for a moment. Mostly, I just feel too exhausted and numb to really, well, feel. “Tired. A little sleep and I’ll be fine.”
“Let me just heal these up and you can call it a night finally.” Oliver cups my injured cheek, sending a shiver down my neck. The cuts’ stinging fads to a dull warmth, lulling me to the brink of sleep.
I focus on Oliver to stay awake. His eyes are such a bright green, human glamour or not. Have his lashes always been that long? A red curl falls from its damp tangle and lands in his eyes. Before I really register what I’m doing, I reach out and brush it from his face, letting my hand linger on his cheek. His eyes shift from his hand to me and his lips part.
My hazy mind swears they’re inviting me.
Oliver’s mouth pushes back against mine, then pulls away just so he can bring my bottom lip between his. They’re cool and trembling, but his breath feels hot against my mouth. My arm slides down around his neck so I can hold him tighter, desperate for more of that strange, intoxicating combination and the smell of earth and flowers that bleeds through his human aura.
His free hand untangles from mine—I don’t even remember holding it—and slides from my knee to my outer thigh, his finger tips pressing into the denim. The sensation sends heat up my leg, waking me up and hitting me with the reality of what’s happening.
What am I doing?