Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

pain lances through my chest like I've been stabbed.
    I clutch at the ache, wanting to tear it out, wanting to rip my shattered heart from my chest and fling it from me. My wet shirt plasters itself to my skin and I half-expect to see the russet bloom of blood soaking through as I look down. How can pain this intense not show a wound?
    I sit there, shaking and trembling for what seems like hours, attracting curious, embarrassed glances from every random passerby. The tattered remnants of my ego eventually scrape themselves together and protest against the indignity, the shame, of being seen like this. I clamber weakly to my feet and start on the long walk home.
    It seems to take forever before I finally turn into my street and my building rises up before me. My feet are hurting, wet socks rubbing against a pair of shoes still too new and stiff for this kind of rough treatment. Rain continues to lash down, trickling in rivulets through my short hair, dripping from the lobes of my ears and the tip of my nose, mixing with the warmer saltwater that burns my cheeks. I sniff loudly, wiping my nose on my sodden sleeve. When I'd left I hadn't anticipated walking anywhere and hadn't even brought a coat out with me. In the darkness, my dove-grey shirt looks black. I'm probably going to catch a chill. With any luck, it'll prove fatal.
    Head bowed, I don't see the shivering figure huddled on my doorstep until I'm almost on top of him. Paul shoots to his feet, as soaked as I am, his T-shirt moulded to the firm contours of his body, his hard nipples dusky shadows beneath the white material. I stare at him in shock.
    "Where have you been?" He demands.
    I can only gape in amazement, my mouth opening and closing soundlessly, synapses short-circuiting in my brain. "Why are you here?" I eventually manage to blurt.
    "I've been waiting for you." His brow pulls low, petulant. "I've been here for hours."
    I finally looked at him properly. He's wrapped his arms around his chest, unconsciously rubbing his hands against his biceps in a vain attempt to warm them. His bottom lip trembles as a shiver overtakes him. The rain has clumped his short hair into thin spikes that lie furrowed across his scalp. His dark lashes are matted. He has never looked more beautiful.
    Another violent shiver takes him and I come to my senses and usher him inside. He follows me up the long flights of stairs to the fifth floor, our jeans creaking stiffly at every step, shrunken and tight. I grab a couple of towels from the bathroom, wrapping one over my shoulders and passing him the other. He stands awkwardly in a puddle on my doormat, the towel hanging limp from his hands.
    "Get dry," I tell him gruffly, heading to my bedroom to find him a change of clothes. I peel off my shirt and fight my way out of the denim that has adhered itself to my thighs, leaving faint bluish stains behind. I pick up the towel I threw on my bed and roughly rub it over my hair and chest, shivering now I realise how cold I'd been.
    A sound at my bedroom door makes me whirl round. Paul stands hesitantly on the threshold. My breath catches in my throat as I looked at him. He's taken off the sodden T-shirt and dried his short hair. My eyes flit over his chest, greedily drinking in the sight of his hard pecs and toned abs, his nipples two tight rosy buds. My mouth waters to taste them.
    I turn back to my wardrobe and wrestle for control of my own body. My poor, hopeful heart begs me to believe that he's here to do more than berate me for ruining his special night and tell me we can no longer be friends.
    "Jack," he murmurs my name.
    "Get dressed." I throw an old T-shirt and pair of jogging bottoms at him. They might be a bit baggy, but they'll do.
    He catches the clothes and stares at them blankly. I rummage viciously through my wardrobe, looking for something to wear myself. I feel too exposed in only my underwear. It's bad enough that my heart has been stripped naked, without my body being that vulnerable, too. My skin tingles as his eyes run over me.
    "Jack," he says, more insistently.
    I clench my fists to keep the shudder inside. Even the sound of his voice is too much for me to bear. Scarlet half-moon crescents mark my palms like stigmata. "Please," I beg, not sure what I'm even asking.
    He pads into the room, his bare feet rasping across the thick pile carpet. He approaches me but I push away from the wardrobe and pace around my bed, putting distance between us before I grab him and do