Gasp (Visions) by Lisa McMann Page B

it, feeling weird about it but also wondering if this is a littlebit like what it would be like if there weren’t any clothes between us. But I don’t want to stop and analyze that now.
    Waves of lust rush through me and I want to be closer to him, touching him, my body becoming one with his body. I open a few buttons of my shirt, as much as I feel comfortable with, and press my chest against his, roll my hips with him, and I feel so beautiful and free. His breathing grows deeper, heavier, and it’s thrilling and scary all at the same time to watch him react to me in this way.
    But then he buries his face in my shirt and gasps, “Oh. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, SHIT.” And then his torso jerks and shudders and his gasp turns into a low moan. “Oooh. Faaahck.”
    I don’t know for sure what’s happening at first, but even though I’m not an anatomy expert, I think I have an idea. I ease back against the steering wheel and peer at him. “Are you okay?”
    His eyes are closed and there’s a pained look on his face. “Shit,” he groans, and lets his head fall back against the seat. He brings his hand up to cover his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “God, Jules. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know that could . . . you know, happen, without actually, you know. Touching it.”
    I bite my lip, not sure what to do now. Sawyer shifts and gingerly slides his hand into his jeans. He cringes. “Well, that’s awkward,” he mutters. I ease off his lap andback into my seat, twist my jeans back into place, turn aside, and hook my bra. My lips tingle. I button up my shirt. And I’m not exactly the Sahara Desert in my pants either.
    I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about what just happened. Flattered? Disgusted? I definitely don’t feel disgusted. I feel . . . smarter. Like I’m beginning to figure things out. Applying book knowledge to real life, like Mr. Polselli says, except, ew, let’s not think about him right now. But I like knowing what happens. I like knowing how things work. Cause and effect. That’s probably weird, isn’t it? But I feel like if I understand what’s going on with this whole sex thing, I can figure out how much of it I want to take part in, and I can plan better.
    I glance at Sawyer to see if he’s done doing whatever needed to be done. He’s buttoning up his shirt. And then, from his still reclined position, he lolls his head sideways and gives me a sheepish grin. “That was not in the plan,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He raises his seat back to an upright position. “So, um, basically,” he says, like he needs to explain, “I don’t know if you are aware of this, but being within, like, fifty feet of you makes me want to have sex with you pretty much all the time. I think that’s normal. And I guess even just the hotness and nearness of you combined with the amount of, um, friction and stimulation that occurred,” he continues in a scientific voice, hisface flushing, “through no fewer than two hearty layers of denim protection, well . . . I guess that was enough to just wake everybody up down there and have ’em throw a party.”
    I laugh. “No need for sorry.” I kind of want to ask him how it felt, but I’m too self-conscious.
    He sits up and reaches out to smooth my hair. His fingers linger on my jawbone, and he says, “I love you, Jules, and not just because you make my thing happy. I love you because you make me happy.”
    I grin.
    He goes on. “I don’t want to push you into having sex, and I don’t want to push myself into it either. And I don’t want to do it until we are both ready for that, and I don’t know when that is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not today. So I hope you can forgive me for letting things get a little out of hand.”
    He chuckles at his pun, and then grows serious again. “I mean it about the love thing, Jules. And I know it’s true, because every time I think about you getting hurt trying to stop one of these