The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(63)

“And I’ve watched a lot of porn—”

“Oh, God,” I said, covering my face with my hands.

“—so it’s not like I’m totally in the dark.”

Some weird, twisted noise came out of my mouth. I did my best to form it into a rough “all right.”

“Just promise me one thing,” he continued. “If it’s not good, tell me. Don’t just get angry and resent me. I’d rather us not do anything and keep what we have now than screw things up between us. Okay?”

I nodded.

He nodded.

Awkward silence hung between us until he finally said, “So, how about dinner?”

Oh. I hoped I didn’t look as disappointed—or simultaneously relieved—as I felt. I reminded myself that he was just doing what I told him I wanted: nothing rushed. We were just hanging out. Besides, Mom’s shift didn’t end until seven in the morning, which was almost ten hours away.

He stood and offered a hand to help me up. When I got on my feet, he was closer than I realized, and I bumped into him. I apologized and tried to step back, but he stopped me with an arm around my waist. “You’re not freaked out, are you?”

I wanted to say “of course not,” but it came out as “You haven’t even kissed me today.”

“You haven’t kissed me, either.”

I smiled, feeling sheepish. “Oh.”

He traced one of my milkmaid braids and combed through the loose wisps around my temples. My gaze tracked his movements before lifting to his face. His fingers stilled. We stared at each other for a few heartbeats and then met in the middle.

His lips were warm on mine. His arms pulled me closer, and we pressed against each other, shoulder to hips. Maybe it was all that candid sex talk, but I was both extremely turned on and deliriously edgy at the same time. My hands found their way under the back hem of his soft T-shirt. He felt warm and solid and muscular, and I traced the bumps in his spine with the tips of my fingers while he trailed wet kisses against my neck. It all felt so good. Too good. My knees went weak, and I staggered against him before quickly righting myself.

“Maybe we should skip dinner,” he said in a gravel-rough voice.

“Maybe we should skip the bed thing, too,” I said, half kidding to cover my embarrassment over the wobbly knees.

“Okay,” he said. “Here?”

Wait, here? Now? I’d only been joking. Jack, however, was not. My nerves went all jangly. “You think anyone can see us?” I asked.

“Not unless they have binoculars with night vision.”

Right. Okay. “Did you bring—”

“In my pocket.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

I could feel my pulse whooshing through my temples.

“Yeah,” I finally said.

We began pulling each other’s clothes off, piece by piece: jacket, shoes, socks, shirts. I nearly passed out from the thrill of seeing his bare chest bookended by those half-sleeve tattoos with their intensely saturated colors, even in the blue moonlight. And below his chest, the dark trail of hair leading to …

“Why do you have a 4-H belt buckle?” I whispered.

“It was my grandfather’s. He loved cows.”

I was loving cows right then, too. My fingers trembled as I finally, finally—WAS I ACTUALLY DOING THIS?—got my hands on that buckle. I was so consumed with the unbuckling that I didn’t notice him struggling to unhook my bra until he growled. I laughed nervously, and he pulled me closer so he could see what he was doing over my shoulder, scolding me in a teasing voice, “You think it’s funny, huh? I’m going to rip it off of you in a second if it won’t—there.”

Cool air rushed over my skin. For a panicked moment, I wanted to cover myself. But my shyness melted away when he touched me, softly at first, then with more confidence. And by the time we got the rest of our clothes off, he was more than confident. He was outright presumptuous.

“I can’t stand up while you do that,” I said, practically panting.

“So bossy,” he teased. We dropped to the floor, and he kissed me in some new and wonderful places before he started touching me again. But it was—“Ow.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. “What? Is this better?”

“Um … I think?” This was more awkward than I’d expected. Doubt crept into my thoughts. Not about Jack but about myself. What if Howard Hooper wasn’t the problem? What if it was me? Maybe I was terrible at sex. Like, woefully bad. What if Jack’s worries about it changing our relationship weren’t wrong? What if—

“What about this?” he murmured.

I couldn’t answer. Not for a while. But when I realized I could touch him, too—actually touch him! Anywhere!—I reciprocated his bold moves and marveled as he shuddered beneath my fingers.

Everything was different with Jack. More intense. Emotional. Stronger. Better … Him. Us. All of it. And one by one, my doubts shrank until they were more or less gone.

“Now, Jack, please.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you close?”

“Maybe. Are you laughing at me now?”

He grinned at me with heavy-lidded eyes as he fished inside the pocket of his discarded jeans. “Only because I’m happy.”