Page 12 of A Slice of Love

He still has one hand on the wall, the other on my waist—which seems to be a favorite spot of his—and his hard eyes are burning into me. “You absolutely cannotjust say things like that, Frank.”

“Which part? That we’re having sex? Or that we’re not having it right now?”

“Fucking hell.” He slaps his palm against the wall. “You’re killing me here.”

“You’ll live.” I pat his cheek. “I’m only teasing you. We’re not having sex…right now.” I wink, and he groans. “Come on, it’s at the end.”

I lead him down the hall with false bravado in each step.

I’m nervous to have a boy in my room, especially when that boy is him.

And especially when he makes me feel the way I do.

Seen.

We step into my sacred place, and I hold my breath as Jonas lets his eyes wander around the small, mostly white room.

I watch as he takes in the twin-sized bed covered in a neat, light pink bedding set. There’s a white dresser that matches my bed and a bookshelf that’s in desperate need of rearranging, the books spilling over the shelf’s capacity.

But he quickly skips over all of that.

His look lingers on the art adorning the walls. I know he’s aware they’re my drawings. I’ve doodled in our notebook enough for him to know my style. One time, without thinking, I drew him. Though we have a rule about not ripping pages out, that one mysteriously went missing.

He steps farther into the room, walking toward the one wall where my drawings hang. Some are finished, and some are works in progress because something is missing I just can’t put my finger on. He studies each one with careful eyes.

Slowly, he shifts his stare to me, almost like he doesn’t want to look away from the pictures. When his eyes find mine, the adoration that’s shining so clearly makes my stomach do flips.

“It’s a real damn shame you’re not doing anything with your art, Frank. Your talent astounds me.”

“I’m not that great.” I look to my pieces and point toward one of the things that bothers me the most about my hobby. “My shading needs work. My eyes could use more practice too. And my—”

The sudden feeling of Jonas’ fingers on my face cuts my words off.

He pulls my attention to him.

“Just take the compliment, Frank.”

I nod, because there’s something about the way he says it that I can’t argue with. “Thank you.”

“I love your art. I love the way you put a little bit of yourself into each piece you create.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t seen a lot of my art.”

“I’ve seen enough to know. Besides, you’reyou—of course you leave a part of yourself inside each drawing. I’m just sorry your parents don’t acknowledge this side of you.” His thumb tracks over my chin and his eyes fall to my parted lips. “It’s probably one of my favorites.”

My breath picks up, and I briefly wonder if I’ll always feel like the air is being ripped from my lungs when he’s around.

“Another.”

He brings his eyes back to mine, and his brows scrunch together in question.

“Tell me another favorite thing.”

“Your shoulders.”

“They’re just shoulders.” I roll my eyes at him.

He grins, stepping closer. “Your ankles.”

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