I Pray To Be Only Yours

Gift?

Lilac

I told myself that I wasn't going to show up today but look at me on a Wednesday afternoon in the library, right on time for Dylan's and I final tutoring session.

His eyes were on me the entire time as I rifled through his notes, as if he's trying to read something more than just history in my movements.

"I see here that you're still having problems with identifying the difference between Cleopatra and Nefertiti," I say, studying his test results.

"It seems that the issue is not with your understanding of the historical figures, but rather with their physical appearance."

He looked zoned out as I continued.

"Well, I think the best way to help you is through a more visual approach. How would you feel about me showing you some pictures of the two queens?"

He didn't respond, continuing to stare.

His gaze lingered on my shoulders, my arms, the way my shirt clung to my torso, and then descended to my hips.

I felt a shiver run down my spine, not from his scrutiny, but from the intense heat radiating from his stare.

It was as if he were mapping my entire being, trying to find the right spot to place his attention.

"Dylan," I cleared my throat, breaking the silence that had stretched between us like a tightrope.

His eyes darted away from my body, as if suddenly realizing what he had been doing.

"Oh," he stammered. "Um... sure." He cleared his throat, then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That'd be... great."

"Follow me,"I say, gesturing towards the computer at the far end of the room.

I pull up images of Cleopatra and Nefertiti on the screen, side by side.

As we stand together, his eyes flicker from the monitor to me, and then back again.

It's a subtle dance, but it's there.

It's unnerving, this intensity, as if he can see through me, as if there's nothing that I could possibly hide from him.

His eyes roam, unfettered, taking in the small details that others might miss: the way my hair curls at the nape of my neck, the small beauty mark on the bottom side of my lip, the way my breath catches in my throat when I'm nervous.

It's a possessive gaze, and I feel it everywhere: in my stomach, in my chest, between my legs.

"Do you understand the difference now?" I ask, my voice a little unsteady.

Dylan doesn't answer right away.

Instead, he takes a step closer, so that his chest is almost touching mine.

I'm acutely aware of the fact that we're standing so close together, that his body heat is radiating onto my skin, that his scent fills my nose with each breath I take.

His gaze drops to my lips, and I feel my heart race as he says, "Yes, I think so."

He tilts his head slightly, as if studying me, before leaning in even closer.