Page 62 of Knocked up By the Minotaur

I can’t stop looking at him.

He lifts his palm towards me, and my fingers are in his before I can think. He doesn’t even need to pull me closer, I move to press myself into his chest on my own.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, and I nod. “Would you like to press charges? I only made promises about my own actions, you’re still free to do as you like.”

A breathy, shocked chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head, my gaze roaming over his features, so creased with worry on my behalf. “You don’t have to fight my battles for me,” I whisper, and god, idiot Grace, what a stupid thing to say when you could just be kissing him. My eyes land on his lips, which tip up with a small, gentle smile.

“You don’t have to fight them alone.”

My heart flutters in my chest, as if it’s trying to tug itself out from behind my ribs and leap into his.

“I think I love you.”

I blink, and as soon as I realize that those words came from my own lips, panic hits me. Fear races through every nerve in my body and I try to pull myself free, to turn away and pretend I never said anything at all, but Oli’s arms band around me tightly and refuse to let me go.

“Sorry,” I mumble, mortified and suddenly feeling much too hot. “I, uh…”

But he only shakes his head, and I finally look up at him.

He looks…struck, somehow. Blank and shocked.

“Grace, you…” He lets out a breath. “I…”

“Oh, god,” I mutter, mortified. The man who’s never short on words can’t even find something to say to my awkward declaration. It’s moments like these that I really hate how stupid my heart is. “Let’s just pretend I never—”

Both his palms find their way to my face, and my voice dies out. His jaw is working as if he’s trying to get more words out, but they seem to lodge in his throat and all he can do is stare.

“Oli…”

And then he kisses me. His lips rush forward to meet mine, and he kisses me with a desperate, needful energy, like he might die if he goes one more second without my lips on his. Like I’m the very air he breathes, and he’s been stuck underwater for far too long.

One hand snakes to the small of my back and he tugs me closer, like he can’t stand the half-inch of distance between us, and when I melt with relief, with lust and desire and my own breathless need for him, he makes a small, quiet noise in his throat and deepens our kiss.

His tongue lashes against mine, devouring and gentle all at once, and I wrap my arms tight around his neck.

Does this mean that he loves me too? Does this mean…?

I’m faintly aware of the sound of clapping and cheering around us as he pulls back, but all I can do is chase him with my lips and try to keep our contact. Unfortunately, he’s much too tall for me to manage that when he stands at his full height.

“Grace, I…” I gaze up at him, feeling dizzy, confused, and hesitantly, tentatively happy. “You deserve better than me,” he whispers, “but you have me, nonetheless. I’m yours.”

My heart bursts in my chest and I grin. “I don’t think there’s anyone better than you.”

He huffs out a chuckle, looking awed, even as he shakes his head. I’m about to try and convince him of how incredible I think he is, when someone in the crowd whistles, and he seems to finally become aware of the cheering our kiss has inspired.

A slow smile spreads across his lips, and he shifts his hold on me. “I hope you're okay with a touch of theatrics,” he says with an amused purr.

“Uh, actually…”

But then I’m swung in his arms, my hair cascading in a flutter around me as he dips me in a showy posture, and then kisses me again.

I laugh into our kiss and hold on to his neck for dear life. “You’re such a showman,” I mutter against his lips, as the crowd goes wild and the blinding flash of every camera going off at the same time surrounds us. The band starts up a suitably stirring, romantic song, and I find myself appreciating his ridiculous and heartwarming flair for the dramatics—so much more than the self-centered, narcissistic posturing of Brad.

When he finally lifts me upright, my cheeks are burning with happy embarrassment, and we finally head back to our table as the waitstaff appear to deposit plates of entrees before us all.

“That,” Rhokar mutters with a glower—although I see a definite upward twitch of his lips that he can’t quite hide behind his tusks, “was more melodramatic than every Spanish soap opera ever aired.”

“Well, you’d better get used to it.” Oli grins broadly and hooks an arm around my chair, scraping it closer until it’s practically glued to his side. Then he slides my plate over, wraps his arm around my waist, and sighs happily. “Because unless Grace objects, I’m going to be making public declarations like that at every opportunity I get.”

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