Heartland

by Sarina Bowen

  “Not at all. I regret—” She gulps. “Asking for it.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly, as that sinks in. It’s hard enough to want things. But it’s even harder if you feel ashamed for naming them. “That’s a tight spot you’re in, isn’t it?”

  She gives a stiff little shrug, like it doesn’t matter. But it’s finally dawning on me that it really does.

  “Okay.” I let out a big breath. “Okay.” I put an arm around her and pull her close to me. And I add a quick kiss on her temple for good measure. “Thank you for explaining that.”

  She relaxes against me, and I feel like I can breathe again for the first time this week.

  “I don’t mean to be so dramatic,” she murmurs.

  “You aren’t. Neither of us likes drama very much, but sometimes it’s unavoidable.”

  “But where do we go from here?”

  “Well…” That is the trickier question. “First you have one more problem to solve. But then I hope you’ll come home with me. I need to spend a little time with you, and I can’t do that at your place.”

  “Come home with you,” she repeats slowly. The air thickens between us. I swear her blue eyes darken as I watch.

  “That’s right. It can just be for drinks and a snack. Or we can work on our other tutoring subject. But in my bed, this time. I like this idea a whole lot, but it’s still your choice. And—” I suddenly think of an innovation. “—since you prefer not to talk about certain subjects, you don’t have to. You can just give me a clue.”

  “A clue?” she whispers so quietly that I almost can’t hear it.

  “Yeah.” I remember Rickie telling me that Chastity prefers actions to words. “You don’t have to ask for tutoring. You don’t have to say a word. I’ll know you’re all in if you hand me your panties.”

  “If I what?” she squeaks, her eyes blazing. We’re back in stare-down mode, and I love it.

  “You heard me.” I run a finger down her cute little sloping nose. “If you want me to take you home and lift up that skirt, all you have to do is put the panties in my hand. Simplest thing ever.”

  She blinks. “So now it’s your turn to throw down a challenge?”

  “Apparently.” I give her a shrug, pretending to be casual even though all my blood has begun traveling south. We stare at each other for another long moment, and then I grin. “But don’t forget to do number thirty-two, first.”

  She lets out a little squeak of irritation and then picks up her pencil.

  I guess it’s really no surprise that problem thirty-two takes an excruciatingly long time. For both of us. She has to factor the equation three different times before she gets it right.

  But eventually she solves the whole thing and throws down her pencil.

  “Check your units,” I say mildly. Although my unit is as hard as a fence post right now.

  She adds a dollar sign to the answer. Then she pushes back her chair, gets up, and leaves me sitting at the table.

  The seconds drag by until Chastity returns a few minutes later, looking a little hesitant, her cheeks deeply flushed.

  When I stand up to meet her, Chastity looks me right in the eye and then places a scrap of fabric in my hand.

  “I just want you to know,” I say in a serious, quiet voice, “that I’ve never in my life prayed for underpants until just a moment ago.”

  “I guess there’s a first time for everything,” she whispers back. “Now put those away before someone sees.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Chastity

  As Dylan shoves my panties into his pocket, I’m thinking—I cannot believe I just did that. And I can’t believe he asked me to. It’s as if Dylan Shipley looked right into my dirty little heart and understood me for the first time.

  It’s too good to be true. I don’t even know what to do next.

  Dylan does, though. He grabs the gift bag off the table. “Hold this. I’ll carry your backpack.” He yanks that into his hands, shoving my algebra notebook inside and zipping everything up hastily.

  He’s in a big hurry. My coat appears suddenly at my shoulders so that I can slip my arms inside. And then a strong arm wraps around my back, as Dylan leads us toward the exit.

  “Don’t you have a coat?” I ask as we hurry past bookworms and sleepy students studying for midterms.

  “Nope,” he says. “I’m from Vermont. I run hot.” Then he gives me a glance that smolders.

  Wow. It’s disorienting to finally get this kind of attention from Dylan. I hurry to keep up with his long strides.

  “I have my truck,” he grunts as we step outside. He steers me toward the parking lot, and in no time at all, he’s opening the passenger’s door and boosting me up to the seat. A blast of cool air finds my bare body beneath my skirt, and I clench my legs together with surprise.

  The door slams, and Dylan reappears on the driver’s side a half second later, just as I’m reaching for the seatbelt.

  But I don’t even get there, because two strong arms yank me against his chest. I gasp with surprise as his mouth claims mine. Impulse kicks in immediately. With a whimper, I go limp in his arms, molding my body to his, softening under his touch.

  “Fuck,” he grunts. “I need to be inside you. I want it so bad.” His tongue invades my mouth, showing me just how urgently he needs me.

  I tremble as his hand slides down my body, reaching under my skirt. As his hand skims up my thigh, I have to fight the impulse to be modest. Kissing a boy in a car is how I ended up with scars on my backside.

  But I didn’t run away to Vermont to be afraid. So I grip Dylan’s flannel shirt in two hands and kiss him fiercely as his slow caress approaches. And then his thumb is right there, brushing tenderly over the mound between my legs.

  He groans loudly. “I have got to get you home,” he says, pulling back, his eyes bright, his face flushed. “Like, yesterday.” And I’m not going to argue. “Put on your seatbelt, because my abilities are impaired right now. Good thing it’s a five-minute drive.” He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to clear it.

  My seatbelt clicks into place, despite my shaking hands. And then it’s a long five minutes to Spruce Street. And quiet, because this turn of events has left me speechless. It’s almost too good to be true.

  Tutoring, though. It’s still just a fun time for him. A tutor isn’t a serious role in someone’s life. It’s just extra.

  My algebra class ends at Christmas time. I wonder if Dylan’s interest in me will last even that long.

  “Fuck,” Dylan hisses when we pull into the driveway. Music is blaring from the house, and I see people in the windows.

  “Problem?” I ask.

  “Not really. I just forgot that Rickie invited people over.”

  This place is a zoo. “Should I go home?” I wonder aloud.

  “Oh hell no.” He cuts the engine. “Come on. Let’s sneak in the back door.”

  I let out a nervous giggle, but Dylan has already exited the truck. Seconds later, he’s opening my door for me, shouldering my backpack again and helping me down. When he closes the truck’s door, I take a step toward the house.

  Dylan stops my progress, pushing me back against the side of the truck, taking my chin into one of his roughened palms and then kissing me deeply.

  His kisses are still a surprise. I’ve had quite a few of them by now, but I’m never really prepared for the warm press of his generous lips against mine and the commanding way he parts my lips to taste me. He kisses me with focus and intense concentration.

  No wonder there’s always a line around the block to kiss Dylan Shipley. I get it now.

  I lose his mouth after an intense minute or two, but he rests his forehead against mine for a moment. “That will have to hold me until I can get you upstairs alone. Now let’s go.”

  As we head for the kitchen door, he takes my hand in his, which is a different kind of exciting. Is it weird that it makes me want to shout?

  Dylan is holding my hand!

  From
the mud room where we’re kicking off our shoes, Dylan pokes his head into the kitchen.

  “Dylan!” Rickie shouts. “Where’ve you been? The punch is half gone.”

  “Hey, Rick,” Dylan says, hanging my backpack on a hook and then taking my hand again. “Quite the party you’ve got here.”

  “Nice of you to stop by.” Rickie smirks at us. His eyes dart to our joined hands. “Who wants punch?”

  Dylan looks at me. “Pour you a glass?”

  “Sure,” I say, even though I don’t really care.

  He drops my hand to reach for the ladle in the punch bowl on the table. “So who’s here?” Dylan asks his roommate.

  “The usual suspects. But none of the music department girls, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Good deal,” Dylan says quickly, and I relax, too. I don’t think I could face Kaitlyn tonight and maintain my bravado at the same time.

  “Keith’s playing some music with that guy Earnest. So if you’re not in the mood to jam you should probably avoid the living room.”

  “That is excellent advice,” Dylan says, handing me a glass cup filled with a rosy red liquid. “Careful,” he says. “The fruit juice covers the taste of what I can only assume is a lot of alcohol.”

  “Noted,” I say, taking a sip. It’s tart and sweet and wonderful.

  He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Don’t get drunk, okay? I have big plans for you.” Then he pats his pocket—the same one where my underpants are.

  “Okay,” I breathe, and he smiles.

  He grabs a beer out of a six-pack on the counter and pops it open on a wall-mounted device for this very purpose. “Come on.” He puts a hand on my lower back, and I’m happy to be led toward the staircase.

  “Dylan!” Keith shouts as we pass the door to the living room. “Come jam with us! And do a shot!”

  “Nope!” he calls.

  “What do you mean no?” Keith demands. “Get your fiddle.”

  Dylan pauses to stick his head into the living room. “Not tonight, honey.”

  There’s loud laughter, and several more voices call his name. Miraculously, he ignores them and leads me up the stairs. I think we’re in the clear.

  Until we reach the wide landing near the top, and find even more people—two guys and two girls. They’re sitting around on cushions, playing cards.

  “Dylan!” they call. “It’s poker night! Sit! We need you.” My heart sinks. They’re practically right outside his bedroom door.

  And it’s not like I blame all the people who want his attention. I’m the same way—a little happier every time Dylan walks into a room where I am.

  “No way,” Dylan says. “You just want me to play because I suck at poker.”

  They all laugh. “We all suck tonight because this deck is missing two cards,” one of the women complains. And then she turns big, brown puppy-dog eyes on Dylan. “Come sit. We were just going to light up.”

  Dylan releases my hand and takes a step toward them. And now I know exactly how Kaitlyn felt at parties with Dylan. For the first time ever, I feel like I understand her.

  But Dylan doesn’t sit down. He crosses to a built-in bookshelf beside the window. He rummages around for a second and comes up with another deck of cards. He hands it down to the girl with the big brown eyes. “If you smoke, open a window.”

  Then he takes my hand again and leads me the short distance to his bedroom door. He opens it slowly, peering inside, as if he’s not sure what he’ll find. But then he turns around and grins at me. “I found it!”

  “What?” I ask, following him in.

  He shuts the door. “The only quiet place in the house. You never know with Rickie’s parties. Sometimes people help themselves to my room. Come on in.”

  “You need a lock,” I say, following him. And then my face heats at the implication.

  “They’d probably just use the credit card trick. I know I would, in certain situations.” He gives me a slow grin, which causes butterflies to hit my tummy.

  We’re finally alone, although all the urgency is gone. I take a sip of my punch, while Dylan walks over and sits down on his bed. His room is really great, with a window seat at one end, and a messy desk against the wall. “This place is bigger than your room at home,” I point out.

  “Right?” he agrees. “Deal of the century.”

  I take another sip, feeling a little unsteady. What am I supposed to do right now? “Why is punch called punch, anyway?” I hear myself ask.

  Dylan chuckles. “I have no idea, Chass. Do you want me to look it up?”

  His eyes are teasing me, so I shake my head. But I don’t know how to get back to where we were before—that heated, impulsive place where anything seems possible.

  He swigs his beer and then reaches over to set it on the nightstand. “Come here,” he says simply. Then he crooks a finger and beckons to me.

  And I’m across that room in a jiffy.

  He takes the cup from my hand and tastes the punch. “Nice.” He sets that on the nightstand, too. “Now come closer.” He tugs my hand. “That’s right. All the way.” Then he scoops me up off the floor.

  I end up with my knees on the bed, my hands on his broad shoulders.

  “That’s so much better,” he says, stealing a quick kiss. “It’s time for our next tutoring session. I hope to cover a lot of ground tonight.” He gives me a serious look. “What chapter are we on, do you think?”

  “There’s no textbook for this,” I choke out.

  “But there should be,” he argues. “Last time we kind of skipped right to the advanced sections. Maybe we should flip back to the beginning and cover some of the introductory lessons.”

  “Okay?”

  He pulls me closer. Our noses are inches apart. “Do you know how many erogenous zones there are on your body?”

  “No,” I whisper. “Is there going to be a quiz?”

  He shakes his head. “Just lots and lots of homework.”

  Then he kisses me.

  Twenty-Nine

  Dylan

  Chastity’s mouth softens immediately beneath mine. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over my surprise at how responsive she is to my touch.

  You think you know someone. You spend a lot of time introducing them to movies and pulled-pork sandwiches and frisbee. But the whole time you’re laughing at Men In Black, you have no idea that the two of you could have sexual chemistry capable of lighting up the night.

  Kissing her makes me feel wild. And just like before, I can’t help escalating the situation from a kiss to a full-on make-out session. A minute later her fingers are gripping the fabric of my shirt, while my two hands are already full of her perfect tits.

  I break off our kiss, because I’m in need of oxygen. But also because we’re wearing too many clothes. “Chapter Three,” I say in a voice that’s calmer than I feel right now. “Unbutton my shirt.”

  She blinks at me with heavy-lidded eyes, but her hands go right to work. “So we’re skipping Chapter One?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Chapter One was that kiss. Chapter Two is that look you’re giving me right now. Like you can’t wait any longer.”

  She drops her eyes immediately, but she keeps up her good work with the buttons. I push away my surprise that it’s Chastity who’s undressing me. And I look down at her hands to watch.

  “What?” she asks when she reaches the last button. “You’re staring.”

  “I just like your hands near my body, that’s all.” A look of surprise crosses her features. “Now touch me.”

  “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Hell.” I grab her hands and put them on my bare chest. “Sometimes all of me is an erogenous zone. Right now is one of those times. So just get busy.” I shrug my shirt off my shoulders to give her plenty to work with.

  At first she’s tentative, stroking me with light fingers. I get goosebumps immediately. But then she forgets to be shy. Her thumb traces my stomach muscles, while one of her fing
ers does an investigative loop around my nipple.

  It’s quiet in my room, if you don’t count the thumping of the music downstairs. The moment feels intensely intimate, even though we’re both still mostly dressed. “Now use your mouth,” I suggest.

  Her blue eyes flick up to mine, questioning.

  “Come on,” I encourage her. “You know you want to.”

  She leans slowly forward until her lips meet my chest. “That's right.” Her lips begin to softly explore my skin, giving me chills. “Good girl.”

  Something changes when I say those words—Chastity relaxes. Her kisses become less tentative. I gather her hair in my hand, and guide her head. She moans against my skin. Whoa. The sound makes my whole body flash with heat. “You like it when I tell you what to do, right?”

  She nods quickly. I’m not a smart man, but I’m catching on. Chastity wants direction—and not because she’s inexperienced. She wants direction because it makes her hot.

  “Now use your tongue,” I order, just to test this theory.

  Not a half second later she's licking my nipple, stroking my chest with her other hand, and clenching her thighs together needfully. When my hand tightens in her hair, she moans again.

  The whole tutoring thing was meant to be a joke. But I realize now that it does something for her. She likes it when I tell her what to do. She really likes it.

  I'm a fan, too, apparently. We’ve only been home for five minutes and I’m about to burst into flames. My cock is straining against the zipper of my jeans, begging for attention. “Unzip me,” I order.

  She must like this idea, because she pops the button on my jeans and works my zipper down in a hurry. Then she licks a line across my stomach, right above the elastic of my underwear.

  I can’t wait any longer—I reach down into my boxer briefs and extract my aching dick. “You know I’ve been hard since sitting down beside you in the library, right?”

  I take one of Chastity’s hands and place it on my shaft. Chastity wraps her fingers around me immediately, her touch soft and seductive. And when she drags her thumb experimentally across my cockhead, I let out a gasp of pleasure so loud that she looks up, startled.