Page 109 of Heartland
That wakes me up. “For what?”
He chuckles. “For whatever. A kiss. Another beer. A hard fuck. Just come and get it.”
I lie perfectly still, wondering why that seems so impossible.
“Sometimes I think your tutor has failed you. And I’m not really joking right now. I feel a little bad that you don’t feel comfortable initiating.”
I sit up quickly, because this turn in the conversation is alarming. “Don’t feel bad. That’s not your fault.”
He shakes his head. Then he closes the laptop, silencing the music mid-note. “It’s just that I worry that you don’t feel comfortable asking for what you want. I mean—I’m soeasy. Just smile at me, and I’m ready to go.” He grins, and I know he’s trying to lighten the mood.
“You’d prefer if it was my idea sometimes?” My voice cracks at the end of the question.
“Yeah, but not because I need it. I just want that foryou. The freedom of it.”
“Oh,” I say, taking his laptop and moving it to the floor, just to have something to do with my hands.
“There’s power in it,” he whispers. “Take off your shirt.”
It takes me a second to realize that he just gave me an order. But when my brain gets onboard, I lift my T-shirt immediately and toss it off the bed.
“See that?” He cups my breast, stroking a thumb across the swell above my bra. “I asked for what I want. Because I don’t feel any shame in wanting it.”
“Right,” I agree. He’s right to assume that shame is an issue. My hang-ups used to be a hundred percent about shame. “I grew up thinking that boys were supposed to want it and girls weren’t.”
“Yeah, I get that,” he says quietly. His wicked fingers are still handling my breast. I want them to handle more of me. “Tell me something you want. Even if it’s a little thing.”
I swallow hard. Lately my hang-ups have shifted. I used to fear my sexual impulses because they made me a sinner, and sinners were punished.
But now I’m only guarding my heart. I can’t ask Dylan for what I want, because he already said he can’t give it to me. So I can’t ask him for sex, either. It’s too revealing. I want more because I’llalwayswant more. I’m an infinite loop of wanting him.
“Okay, here’s my demand. Are you ready?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Hit me.” His brown eyes are smiling.
“I really want you to stop talking so much.” And just to make my point clear, I unhook my bra.
His laugh is carefree and happy. “Fine. Sure.” He removes my bra, and, with hungry eyes, he lowers his mouth to my breast, and everything is right with the world.
Thirty-Three
Freshman Composition
Section Four
Title: The Root Cellar
Author: Chastity Campbell
The housewhere I grew up had no real basement. But there was an old root cellar dug beneath one side of it. The only entry was via a hatchway with two slanting metal doors above it.
Some of the daughters were afraid to go down there, because they didn’t like the idea that someone could come along and close up those doors.
But I was the kind of kid who always took a dare. So I didn’t mind being sent to that cellar to get things that the other little girls were too chicken to fetch. I liked playing the role of the brave girl.
Besides—thirteen people lived in that house. It was as crowded as a bus station. Even if somebody had locked me into the root cellar as a prank, I could have made enough racket that passersby would hear me even before my flashlight went out.
When I was small, I asked one of my uncles why the potatoes and carrots didn’t spoil so long as we kept them in a hole in the ground. “Because the germs are too cold to eat the potato before we can,” he said.
