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He rushed toward me and slid to his knees at my feet. His expression was pretended innocence, and his eyes storm-tossed and wicked.
“Lady, shall I lie in your lap?”
I startled and sat up straighter, face forward, hands folded. “No, my lord.”
“I mean, my head upon your lap?” he said and did exactly that, resting his cheek on my thigh.
A shiver rippled out from where he touched me. Half danced down my calf, the other rest rocketed between my legs and settled there warmly. My first intimate male touch since X. Instead of tensing up or shutting down, my body liked the weight of Isaac’s head in my lap. The dark brush of his stubble so stark against the white of my jeans.
A blush burned my cheeks as I whispered. “Aye, my lord.”
Isaac turned to prop his chin on my thigh. The scene called for him to show mocking disdain hidden under false humor, but his delivery bordered on flirtatious.
“Do you think I meant country matters?”
I already knew from Spark Notes that country matters = sex.
My flush deepened and I sat up straighter. “I think nothing, my lord,” I said, my thoughts full of his thick brown hair and wanting to sink my fingers in it.
“That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.”
God, another flush of heat swept through me, settling between my legs, as if his voice had commanded it.
“W-what is, my lord?” I asked, stammering Shakespeare’s words.
“Nothing,” he said.
I tried to remember Hamlet was toying with Ophelia, but my line came out on a small, provocative laugh. “You are merry, my lord.”
Isaac smiled knowingly. “Who, I?”
“Yes, merry indeed,” Marty said, breaking the moment like a sledgehammer. “A little too merry, methinks. I’m going to give a little direction here.”
Isaac lingered a moment more, then lifted his head from my lap and sat in the empty chair beside me. I put my hand where he’d been, to touch the warmth there a little longer.
Martin rubbed his chin with one hand. “I love the progress you two have made. I can feel the difference in how you relate to each other, the familiarity.” He turned to Isaac. “But you’re too nice.”
Isaac sniffed. “I’m nice?”
“First time for everything,” I said.
He shoved his shoulder against mine playfully, not looking at me, but his Oedipus curtain call smile slipped out, and it put a crack straight across my block of ice. A sliver of light in the dark. I knew he forgave me for not showing him my house, while I hated even more that I’d had to hide him.
I don’t want to hide him. I feel good with him.
“Last time, Isaac, you were too pissed off,” Marty said. “This time, too nice. Go back to pissed off and layer it over the feelings you have for each other. Build on what we worked through last Saturday.”
Isaac nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
Martin turned to me. “Willow, I love the nervousness. Ophelia’s a proper lady and Hamlet is being quite inappropriate for a prince. Your initial stiff, shocked reaction was brilliant. But later, you… How do I put this delicately? You looked turned on.”
My eyes widened and a tingle of electricity shot down my spine.
Martin turned to Isaac. “You look smitten too, come to think of it. Right now, this scene plays like something out of Romeo and Juliet.”
Unable to look at Isaac, my eyes sought refuge in the audience. They found Justin sitting in the front row with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—two college actors he’d become friends with—watching me blankly.
“If you’re building an emotional castle in this scene,” Martin said, pulling my attention back, “the foundation is the love. The ruin of that love is the ground floor. Upstairs is his madness. And in the attic, a healthy dose of sexual tension. Okay?”
