I see him bending toward me and freeze.

But when his lips brush mine, I’m melting.

My heart rises to my throat and then splashes down to my stomach. I’m hot, and then I’m freezing, and something inside of me hurts, but it’s the pain I feel when I’m done swimming a mile at a fast crawl. A good pain. A necessary pain, the kind of addicting endorphin rush that has you chasing it over and over again.

Maybe that’s why I’m letting his warm mouth cover mine. Maybe that’s why I’m shifting on the rock, turning my body so that it’s flush with his and letting his arms crush me to his broad, hard chest. Maybe that’s why, when his tongue seeks mine, I part my lips and let just the tiniest slip out, just to taste him again.

I’ve only tasted him once before, but the memory must have seared itself into my tongue, because I know it. His lips, his tongue, his mouth—he tastes exactly the same, and in a flash, nine long years disappear and I am back in the third floor chapel of Our Lady of Sorrows School for Girls.

Under the baleful eye of Jesus on the crucifix hanging over us, half-lit by eerie yellow spotlights in the gloom, I lift the little statue of the Virgin Mary from her small pedestal off to the side of the altar. As I do, Adam’s hand brushes up the small of my back, a small, encouraging touch that urges me on, and I fold up the hem of my T-shirt, making a little hammock for the icon, who stares up at me with impassively blank eyes. Adam murmurs something, but the muffled silence of the chapel swallows it up, or maybe it’s just that my heart is beating so loudly in my ears that it drowns out what he’s saying. Whatever his question, he seems to have found his answer, because his hand is moving higher to cup the back of my neck, holding me for a moment, and I blink up at him, hardly daring to breathe.

The religious quiet has fallen over us like a spell, and right then I believe in the power of magic and prayer because Adam’s lips are on mine, and it’s somehow even better than the dreams I’ve had about this moment. In the half-dark of the chapel, I cannot see anything, I can only feel the way Adam’s body presses against mine, the soft way his lips part. First he is quiet and seeking, but as my heart beats faster, his breathing matches the tempo, and suddenly the chaste peck is escalating and our bodies entwine. It’s my first kiss, the first real one, and it could not be more perfect to have it here on this altar. All the feelings I’ve tried so hard to deny can be freed, and I can allow myself to love him the way I know I’ve loved him all along because he is kissing me, and he loves me like I love…

The sound of footsteps on marble is like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. I freeze, convinced that a statue of Jesus has come down from the cross and has come to life to punish us. I jerk back and the little statue slips from my grasp, and suddenly the whole chapel is echoing with the shattering crash. I hear Adam hiss, “oh shit, run” at the same time the shout of “who’s there?!” bounces crazily around me. Adam is already running, and I’m following him, but I’m not fast enough, and a hand closes on my upper arm, yanking me back…

And then I’m back on the rock again, but my heart is still thudding with wild, angry adrenaline. I grip his arms and push back as hard as I can, which is harder than I mean to because I’m getting so strong. Adam steps back, stumbling a little, and looks at me, shocked.

“No,” I tell him. No, I’m not telling. I’m yelling because how dare he? How fucking dare he?

“I’m sorry, I…” he trails off, and his fingers drift up to touch his lips, and without meaning to I mimic him, brushing my own fingers against the place where his lips just were, the heat from his kiss still warming me so that my cheeks are on fire. “I mean…” Adam clears his throat and a sharp edge enters his voice. “I’m not actually sorry for kissing you. I’m just sorry you didn’t like it.”

My eyes go wide. “You don’t know anything.”

“No,” he says evenly. “I clearly don’t.”

It’s that even tone that has me sputtering. I’m the one who’s supposed to play it cool. I’m the one who is unflappable. I don’t get rattled by anyone. And if I do slip up and let somebody bother me, it sure as shit isn’t going to be Adam Lane or Zeller or whatever the hell he calls himself these days.

“Don’t do that again,” I hiss at him.

Something flickers across his face, and then his eyes narrow. “Don’t worry, Reg,” he says, and I hate how right and normal my old nickname sounds on his lips. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”

He turns before I think to ask what the hell he wants to do, but then I remind myself that he’s leaving soon, and anyway, I don’t care. I yank a hair tie off my wrist and savagely scrape my hair back into a pony-tail. As soon as I do, I regret it because without my hair hanging in my face, I have all too clear of a view of Adam’s back as he leaves me… again. “Go ahead!” I shout, hot anger choking the words out into an indignant sputter I’m not even sure he can hear. “Run away! That’s what you do best!” I bite my lip so hard to keep from shouting that I taste blood, but my lips taste like him and I can’t help it. “Asshole!” I yell out to his rapidly retreating back.