Page 63 of Mark Me

Fixing my gaze on the stack of books in his arms instead of those piercing blue eyes. “Hi, Alistair.”

He watches me for a moment longer, that look still on his face, before he finally looks away.

Yeah, I’m not going to be getting any answers anytime soon.

Charlie bursts into the room with a grin that’s all devil-may-care, and I return it. He’s got this energy about him, like he’s the star in his own movie where nothing ever brings him down.

“You look as if you’re about to face a firing squad rather than an audience hanging on your every word.”

“Feels much the same right now,” I admit, trying to keep my voice light.

He laughs, the sound rich and easy. “Trust me, once you’re up there, it’s pure adrenaline. Like stepping onto a stage.” He spins around as if illustrating his point, arms spread wide.

“Easy for you to say. I step on a stage, and I want to cry while throwing up and trying not to pass out at the same time. Not so fun.”

Alistair clears his throat, commanding our attention with that inherent authority of his. “Speaking from experience, it’s about control. Hold them with your gaze, command their attention with your words. It’s not unlike navigating the intricacies of a political minefield.”

“Great, no pressure then,” I mutter, meeting his confident blue stare. There’s steel in it, a force that both intimidates and compels.

“None whatsoever,” he replies with a sly smirk. “You can do this. Picture them all naked.”

Snorting into my hand as the tension breaks, I fall back into these guys just being my housemates and sort of friends. We can deal with the messy stuff later. Right now, I need to get this done.

Ben shifts in his chair. “Remember to breathe,” he says simply, his voice even. “It grounds you, centres you. Don’t rush through your speech even though the need will grip you to get it over with; let each word resonate.”

I nod, but he can see I’m not buying it.

“Trust me. It helps.”

Damien leans towards me, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that sends shivers down my spine. “Imagine yourself conquering the stage, and you will.”

“Conquering,” I echo, nodding. The idea seems so simple when he says it, yet profound.

“Exactly,” Damien confirms, his grey eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes me believe it might be possible.

“Eye contact,” Alistair says. “It’s about asserting dominance, making sure they hang onto every word.”

I nod, biting my lip as I jot down ‘eye contact - dominance’. His eyes linger on me, a silent promise igniting a spark in my soul, remembering the heat from our last encounter. It’s an inferno that seeps into my bones and sets my nerves on fire. He knows it as well as I do. He must know no one has ever gone down on me before. I was scared shitless he was going to take my virginity, but he was so careful, and afterwards, it meant the world to me.

“Right,” I murmur, trying to keep my mind on the task at hand. “Eye contact.”

Charlie leans back against the plush sofa, one arm draped over the back, his hazel eyes dancing withmischief. “But don’t forget to let your gaze wander. Keep them guessing where you’ll look next.” He gives me a slow smile, and the atmosphere thickens with something unsaid, a tension that buzzes beneath my skin.

“Keep them guessing,” I repeat, feeling the weight of their stares as if they are physical touches.

“Exactly.”

“A speech isn’t just about words,” Ben adds, his voice smooth and reassuring as he flicks a glance my way. “It’s about the silence between them. Let it breathe.”

I write down ‘silence’, and for a moment, there is just that. Silence. It stretches out, laden with expectation, before Damien breaks it with a low chuckle.

“Sounds like Ben wants you to seduce the audience with pauses,” he murmurs, leaning closer.

“Maybe I do,” Ben retorts, an edge to his calm that wasn’t there before. “There’s power in stillness, in expectation.”

“Power in stillness,” I say, trailing off as I meet Damien’s gaze. There’s an unspoken challenge there, a dare to delve deeper into what we’re really talking about—control, desire, the space between words where everything truly happens.

“Make them wait for it,” Damien adds, his voice a whisper that sends tingles along my spine. “Make them crave the next word.”

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