Page 11 of Due South

It had been confusing to be told that it was my responsibility for what boys thought about; that they shouldn’t admire my body, shouldn’t want me; that it was my fault if they did. The way my mom had clucked while she took my measurements to make me a dress for a school dance.

“We’ll have to try to hide this bust of yours a bit, Lulu. I don’t know where that came from anyway. My side tends to be slight. You’ll just have to be extra careful to hold onto your virtue because you’re going to give boys ideas.”

It seemed like a compliment and damnation all at once. Those mixed messages were probably why I’d given up my junior year in high school. I may have gone a little wild, drinking and sleeping around. And why shouldn’t I have? I may as well have had some fun if people were going to treat me as though I was going to lead boys into temptation no matter what I did. But the truth is, I hadn’t enjoyed it. Getting drunk hadn’t felt all that good, and I wanted to date boys, not just screw them.

Now that I have the words for it, I know the church I grew up in was misogynistic, but they’d cloaked it in what had sounded like perfectly reasonable arguments. Of course I wanted to do God’s will, of course I wanted to walk the righteous path. But somehow it always came down to shaming my body and the urges I felt and never holding the men accountable for any of those things.

That’s another reason I hadn’t been looking forward to going home: Christmas services where, no doubt, Pastor Elijah would ask me how I was faring in California. I’d have to listen to him praise me for surely being a beacon of God’s plan and a virtuous woman among the hypocrites who would wear their short skirts along with their gold crosses.

I need to shove these things out of my head because there’s a man in front of me who maybe wants what I want, who might make me feel good about it. Or, at least, not bad.

“Tell me, Lucy. Did you like that?” Evans’s tone is half-order, half-begging. “It’s okay if you did.”

His encouraging words trip something inside me, make me fully shrug off the uncomfortable memories. Instead, I let myself believe it.It’s okay. That’s what I’ve been convincing myself of since I left home. It’s okay to want sex, to like it, to enjoy my body and be proud that men find me attractive. It’s okay to be a sexual creature. And Evans…well, he’s easy to believe.

“I did.” It’s easier to say thanyesorI liked it. I don’t know that I’d take it as seriously as India seemed to, but I can see how playing that way might be fun. Exciting.

If it’s possible, his eyes get darker. “And did you like it when he fucked her?”

I swallow hard.Yes, yes. But getting fucked isn’t what I’m supposed to be interested in. I’m supposed to lie on my back, take my husband between my thighs, and think of England until he’s finished. I’ve been out in the world long enough to have been told it’s okay to enjoy sex, to seek pleasure from it, but never has it looked to me so full of passion and…joy. There wasn’t the grim satisfaction I’ve been led to believe is the reward for doing your marital duty. And despite what they were doing, it didn’t seem demeaning or exploitive.

If I could get fucked like that, then… “I’d like to get fucked.”

“Then we may both be in luck because I’d very much like to fuck you.”

Chapter Four

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December 18th

Lucy

Evans said fuck.Twice!I’ve never heard him say a stronger word thancrapand he’d apologized for that. To the desk he’d stubbed his toe on.

“Here?”

He nods slowly, thoughtfully, as though he’s picturing it in his head. “Yeah. Right here on the floor.”

“In the kitchen?” My voice squeaks on the last syllable.

“Yeah. I’m going to fuck the living daylights out of you right here on the kitchen floor. And every time you come in here to make coffee—” He grins and I know what he’s thinking. That’s a good chunk of my day, caffeine-procurement. I’ll be thinking about it a lot. “—you’re going to think about getting fucked right here. How I spread you out and took you and you loved it.”

“Yes. Please. Here. Evans, please.”

Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I said that. That I’m going to do this. But some piece of my brain that hasn’t been corrupted and shamed has taken over, and I’m not even sorry. I do want this, and by some small miracle, I’m going to get it.

Then he’s kissing me again, his mouth hot and hard on mine. But when he slips his tongue across the seam of my lips, it’s coaxing. A seductive request. I give him access and then he’s inside me. This kiss is filthier than any sex I’ve ever had. If he can make me feel this way with a kiss… I groan into his mouth before pulling away. I want to tell him so he has no doubts, feels no guilt.

“More, please.”

He nods and reaches for my shirt, tugging it out of my waistband. The unnaturally cooled office air hits the skin of my stomach and the contrast of his warm hand sliding up my ribcage is delightful. Especially when he hits my bra and tugs the fabric down to play with my already hard nipple. He toys with it before cupping my breast and squeezing.

“You have amazing tits, Lucy. Jesus.”

I’ve heard this before—it seems to be one of the qualities men like the most about me—but from Evans it doesn’t sound like an insult or something he wants to use against me. It’s one more layer of things he likes about me and it happens to be about my body. The grip of his fingers is clumsy as he pulls down the other cup. It doesn’t feel sloppy, though. It feels desperate, and it makes me feel good he wants me that much. I push into his hand, wanting more, wanting him to want me more.

He seems content to kiss me, to touch me under my shirt. I should be grateful for this level of attentive foreplay, the way he repeats the things that make me moan. Maybe if I hadn’t already been so turned on when we started, I could make this last. As it is, the lace of my underwear is rubbing uncomfortably between my legs and I need for him to do something about it.

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