Page 14 of Witch Please

“Didn’t you live in Hillary?”

The question threw me. First my brain had turned into mush so words sounded fuzzy and disconnected. It had to have been that weird halfway space between true consciousness and the blackness.

“I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time focusing.” My tongue felt thick and sticky on the roof of my mouth, “I thought you just asked if I lived in Hillary. Which obviously can’t be correct because we’re at Dartmouth not Oxford.”

“Yes, I was trying to make a joke. Because the accommodations for the doctoral students in Hillary are smaller than the entirety of this attic.”

“How would you—oh right. The British thing. Of course, you’d know.”

“No…” He ticked his head to one side, studying me as if I were some kind of abstract work of art that he tried to figure out. “I graduated a year before you began. I TA’d all of Doctor Emmerson’s classes while doing my post doc.”

My worlds converged at once. It wasn’t possible. There was no way that I knew Sebastian for… “Thirteen years?”

“I’m sorry?” he said still looking at me like I were a Jackson Pollock painting.

“I’ve known you for thirteen years?”

“Apparently not.” He twisted his face in mock indignation. “I must not be nearly as memorable to you as you were to me. I guessI’veknownyoufor thirteen years.”

He squatted so we were at eye level, his hand caressing my chin, those lightning storm eyes of his scanning my face in search of something.

“You have some color back in your cheeks again.” He commented, his fingertips skating along my jawline causing me to shiver, “And your eyes are starting to clear. I wish I could offer you a drink of water or something but” he shrugged with a smile, “I don’t want to restate the obvious and create another spell of panic.”

“What are we going to do?” I asked. Twisting my chin out of his hand. I could feel my cheeks flushing, and I wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or the intimate way that he caressed my face. It was as if he actually cared.

Only Kennedy knew we were up here. I didn’t need to be on stage for at least a half hour, and Kennedy was too intimidated by Sebastian to come looking for him. I’d been so pissed when I’d seen my costume, I hadn’t thought to grab my bag or even just my cell phone. Sebastian appeared to not have his phone either. We truly were trapped. No one would wonder where we were for at least thirty minutes.

“We’ll get you a new costume. I had to order costumes before I’d even cast the play, Imogen. This year’s differences meant a full wardrobe change. And in order to assure we’d have at least a basic assemblage of my vision, I reserved them in the summertime. But, please,” he tucked a piece of loose hair behind my ear, “tell me what about this costume that has you so upset. It’s basically a silk nightgown.”

I could feel the rage churning like a molten storm in my chest. The shame the rage hid just beneath that surface. Of course he wouldn’t understand.

“Sebastian, how would you feel if someone told you to prance around on stage in your underwear?”

He smirked, his eyes raising to the ceiling while he pretended to consider it.

“Never mind. You look like a Greek God. All pouty lips and dignified nose and jawline. I’m sure under all of those closely tailored shirts and pants are ripples of muscles and well-tended to skin. You’re probably a magazine ad.”

I watched his eyes narrow, his lips jutting out and pulling together as if he considered the meaning of life. His hands reached over his head to the back of his sweater, he yanked it forward, over his head and off his body. He stood, kicking off his shoes while unbuckling his belt, shucking off his jeans in one fell swoop. Sebastian, mister demanding and mercurial intellectual, leaned against the door sporting a set of navy boxer brief shorts with a PSD across the band.

“Here I am, Imogen. Not a Greek god. Nothing aristocratic about a guy hanging out in his boxers is there?”

I watched his fingers trace down his breastbone, following the tawny colored patch of hair that eventually led beneath his shorts. As expected, he was fairly well defined, though not muscular. Regardless of muscular definition, there was no denying how attractive he was.

“What exactly is a prance?” he asked, stepping out of his jeans. “Is that like a skip, or a hop? Define it for me.”

“Sebastian, come on.” He pulled a laugh out of me with his efforts I’d give him that. “While I appreciate the show—it’s different for you.”

I watched his hand trail down the front of his boxers, adjusting himself without an ounce of self-consciousness.

“Did you like that?” He smirked and did it again. “You have the most beautiful blush, Geenie.”

There was a palpable shift in the air. His little strip tease had been playful, if not mildly sexual. However, the bulge he shifted to draw my blush had grown.

“How is it different?” The question was seductive, whisper soft. It enticed a riot of gooseflesh to appear beneath my skin, despite the sweater I wore. A shiver of pleasure snaking down my spine.

“You aren’t judged for one. Men see one another’s naked chests all the time. This is the equivalent of wearing your swimsuit.” I signaled up and down as if to highlight my point. “And you’re beautiful, Sebastian. Women would fall all over themselves to see you like this.”

“What if the only person I want to see me like this, is you?”

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