The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(44)

“Oh.” He looked greatly relieved.

“Would it have been an issue if it was four guys?” After all, I’d known plenty of guys our age who’d slept with twice as many girls. Double standards were the worst.

“Intimidating, maybe. But, no, it wouldn’t matter. Were things serious? With the one guy—not the half guy,” he clarified, one side of his mouth quirking up.

“With Howard Hooper? God, no. I didn’t even like him toward the end. He was kind of an ass. And the sex was disappointing, if you want to know the truth. At least, it was for me. He seemed to enjoy it, and that really pissed me off.” Talking too much again. What was wrong with me? Was I trying to out-honest him with the embarrassing confessions? “Anyway, I overheard him calling Heath a fag, which was a deal breaker.”

“I hate this Howard Hooper already.”

I laughed a little. Things got quiet again.

“I’m not screwed up,” he insisted.

“I’ve never thought that.”

More silence.

“I’m not a monk, either,” he said. “And I don’t just want to be friends with you.”

Well then.

“What do you want?” My voice sounded strange. I wished my heart would slow down. It was hard to breathe through my nostrils.

“What do I want?” His fingers brushed over loose strands of hair near my temple. “I want to call you every five minutes. I want to text you good night every night. I want to make you laugh. And I want you to look at me like you did that first night on the bus.”

Oh.

My pulse was out of control. I was so overwhelmed, I couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t even respond. His head dropped until our cheeks were touching. I turned my face to his, and his mouth hovered over mine—just for a moment. Long enough for me to feel his arm circle my waist, and one warm hand slide up my back. Long enough for chills to bloom across my forearms.

And then he kissed me. Slowly, softly. He tasted like he smelled, sunny and warm, but the sweetness lasted all of five seconds.

My hands snaked around his back, and he pulled me closer. And then he was kissing me like we were both on fire and he was trying to put the flames out, and I kissed him back like an arsonist with a pocketful of matches.

We were both frantic and fevered, and it was the first kiss I’d ever had that felt like a fight. And the way he made my body ache made me think I’d been doing it all wrong until now.

We broke apart for air, but our hands didn’t stop moving.

“Jack,” I whispered against his lips. I wasn’t sure whether I was thanking him or begging. But before I could figure it out, my back was against the door, and I could feel every hard line of his body pressing into me, including what pressed against my stomach. When I pushed back, he picked me up until my toes left the floor and he didn’t have to bend to fit his mouth to mine. And then my legs were around his hips and he was pulling me against him in exactly the right spot.

Maybe he was trying to prove something—I wasn’t sure. And frankly, I didn’t care, because it was the best kiss I’d ever had in my life. And the way he looked at me when he broke away for air, with his eyelids all heavy and those double lashes fanning … damn. It almost made me moan.

And I might’ve done exactly that if someone hadn’t pounded against my shoulder blades. “Yo, Vincent. Let me in, man,” a muffled male voice complained from the other side of the door. “Nature’s calling. And it’s time for the movie.”

“Dammit,” Jack mumbled against my neck before letting me slowly slide between the door and his hard body until my tiptoes reached the ground. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me. Not until he’d dropped another kiss on my lips and a couple more on my eyelids. And this just made me want to start up all over again.

More pounding. “Vincent! You hear me in there?”

“I hear you,” he answered in a rough voice. “Give me a sec.”

He held me at arm’s length, fingers gripping my shoulders, and he blew out a long, dramatic breath.

“Are you sure you are?” I whispered. Because, virgin or not, hell’s bells, that was good.

He grinned. “Pretty sure.”

Could’ve fooled me.

When we walked outside, rinky-dink backyard fireworks were popping and whistling around the neighborhood. Most of the party had gathered on the main deck to watch the movie, and as Jack made some final adjustments to the projector, I ignored the stares and found a space at the back of Sierra’s cushion mountain. I leaned one striped pillow against the stone bench seating and watched a couple of the boys light an entire box of sparklers at once. I was pretty sure Jack and I were the only sober people there, but I couldn’t have cared less.

I don’t think he cared, either, because he was all smiles as he announced “one of the greatest cinema treasures of all time”—a martial arts flick from 1973, Enter the Dragon, which I’d never heard of, starring Bruce Lee, whom I had. But when the deck lights were turned off and the movie raced across the white sheet, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the plot. I was too busy being ridiculously happy inside the circle of Jack’s arm, which curled over my shoulders, and too busy memorizing how his chest felt under my cheek. And every time I tried to steal a glance at the movie’s white glow reflected in his face, he was smiling down at me.