“You’re so beautiful, Dutchie.”
In all the years we’ve been meeting in the barn, Edward has only ever been gentle with me. Like I am a glass figurine that he’s afraid to crack with too much pressure, too much heat.
I may have been born somewhere beyond the Kansas farmhouse, but everything I am now was forged beneath that violent storm. And I can’t help but wonder if the insatiable appetite I have for somethingmoreis because of it, if deep down the girl I am is a girl who yearns for bruises and ash and blood.
Maybe that’s why I’m incapable of letting love in. Because there is no room for things that feel soft and gentle.
And safe.
Use me,I want to say to Edward.Make me feel something so deep it leaves marks on my skin.
But the thought of voicing this wickedness to him makes my stomach roll with embarrassment.
Edward would frown at me. He would blush. He would tell me he respects me too much to treat me that way.
But sometimes I just want him to throw me against the wall.
The warmth of the barn surrounds us, and we shed more clothes as our movements grow more frenzied. Some of the pressure builds. Edward grows harder inside me. He’s getting closer. I would know his impending orgasm just as well as my own.
I hook my leg around his hips and coax him over, switching positions so I’m straddling him. So I’m in control. I grind against him, close my eyes, pretend I am somewhere else, with some other man.
The guilt whispers in the back of my mind.You should be grateful for Edward.
But another man… a different man… maybe his words would not be so sweet. Maybe his touch would be possessive.
I tighten at the thought. Edward moans up at me.
“Oh yes, Dutchie,” he says, using the nickname he gave me when we were kids. I urge him to sit up so I can wrap my arms around his neck using him for leverage, fucking him harder and faster, chasing the only thing that makes me feel something.
A bead of sweat slithers down my spine.
Moonlight spills in through the hayloft window, painting Edward in silver light. I watch as his face slackens with his pleasure. Every time he comes, it’s like this, like he is mystified by it, a little bit drunk.
“Did you come?” he asks me.
“Not yet.”
“Should I—”
“I’m almost there.” I squeeze my eyes shut and carry on the fantasy in my head.
Come for me,the faceless, nameless man says.Don’t disappoint me.
I clench up and rock my hips forward and hit the right angle, the friction reaching a crescendo.
I finally come.
And it’s only then that I see in color.
We sit in the open window of the hayloft, legs dangling over the edge.
I’m dressed again but Edward is still shirtless and I can’t help but admire the swell of his biceps, the rise of his chest.
He hands me a joint.
I take a hit and exhale.
When the smoke meets the air, it curls around the full moon.
