“Ah.” Jem nodded sagely, playing along. “Chaste. Unravished.”
“Practically virginal,” River agreed on autopilot. “Like you forgot the key to your chastity belt.”
“Shit. I hope you have bolt cutters.”
Several seconds passed. In that time, Jem did not magically become disheveled. The metaphorical chastity belt stayed in place. Finally Jem said, “What do you want to do about it?”
For starters, said the part of River’s brain that was still thinking about the curl of hair beneath Jem’s navel,you could bite him, right there above the waistline of his pants. You could send the car away. You could take him to bed and take him apart.
River absolutely could not do any of that. The best he could hope for was to send Jem on his way and then have a private meltdown about what an idiot he was.
“Just… come here,” he said, beckoning.
Jem went, like the good boy next door he was.
River had options. He could muss up Jem’s hair, or pinch his cheeks until he looked like he’d been ravished, or tell him to turn his sweater inside-out, or switch shirts with him. But River had never been great about making the smart choice. That’s how he got into this in the first place.
So he cupped a hand around Jem’s jaw and searched those hazel eyes for any sign of hesitation. He found open curiosity and maybe the hint of a challenge.
God help him, River could never back down from one of those.
He moved in slowly, like he would with a wild animal. Ironic, because his own heart was beating frantically in his chest and he could feel the steady thump of Jem’s pulse under his fingertips. More proof, if he needed any, that this was a stupid idea. But he didn’t care. River loved stupid ideas. And the second his lips touched Jem’s, he knew it was the best stupid idea he’d ever had.
Jem kissed like he talked—all soft, mobile lips and barely-there teases of tongue. He tasted like the last drops of an old-fashioned, and the heat of him so close to River’s body made River want to curl into him, bury his face in the neck of that oatmeal sweater, tuck his hands under the hem.
He settled for dragging his hands through Jem’s hair, because someone had to see if it was as soft as it looked. It was softer, and warm too. When River ruffled it, it smelled like green apple.
Then he let his fingernails graze the back of Jem’s neck, and Jem made an almost inaudible sound that River would spend the rest of his life desperate to hear again and shivered against him. The car outside beeped the horn.
Reluctantly, he pulled back.
If Jem had been too composed before, he looked almost dumbstruck now. His cheeks were pink, lips red and wet, hair perfectly mussed, eyes dark and shining. He should’ve had little cartoon hearts and stars chasing each other around his head.
I did that, said a smug, self-satisfied voice in the back of River’s brain.
Because I’m anidiot,added the part of him that knew what he was getting into.
River cleared his throat. “There,” he said. “Now you can go.”
Jem licked his lips and flicked his gaze back down to River’s mouth. River watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. Then, all at once, he seemed to snap out of it—he smiled and raised his hand in a strange kind of wave. “Yeah, uh—see you Saturday, River.”
“Saturday,” River repeated, as Jem opened the door and the Santa Anas tried to whisk him away. “Good night, Jem.”
Chapter Six
Who Wrote the Book
Jem hada problem, but he didn’t have time to stew over it, because he was responsible for supervising a horde of five-year-olds. The day after River proved difficult professionally as well as personally, at around eleven in the morning, Tanya sneaked up behind Kevin at the cubbyholes and pulled his pants down around his ankles.
Jem suspected some kind of horrible internet trend, but whatever the reason for it, it filled his morning with disciplinary action and paperwork and referrals to the school counselor, which was always fun when your students were five.
He drowned his sorrows in the teachers’ lounge at lunch, where he took one look at the vending machine and sacrificed five bucks for three packages of pretzel M&M’s. By the time Tori showed up, no doubt having heard tales of his morning’s misfortunes, he was down to the last one.
“I was going to ask about your date,” she said, “but the universe said, ‘nah.’”
Jem was going to have a rough enough afternoon without the sugar comedown, so he huffed a breath and slid the last package toward Tori. She accepted his offering without further comment on the Pantsing Situation, which Jem appreciated. Instead, she nudged her shoulder against his and relayed her own morning terror stories, which involved teaching fourth-graders the recorder.
Jem shuddered, feeling better about his own problems. “There’s not enough Advil in the world.”
