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“A girl’s gotta have some decent tunes to listen to. Let’s go check ’em out.” He leads the way to my cabin, and I follow, more than a little surprised he hasn’t made any dirty jokes or double entendres yet.
Scrap’s inuendo-free friendliness continues as he uses his battery powered boom box to play song after song for me. Some are songs I know and love, some are new to me, but they’re all styles I like. I’m touched to know Scrap was paying attention as we talked at dinner.
We dance by the light of a kerosene lamp in my little living room, hopping up and down, laughing, and just having fun letting the music move us. I love the old-style device. Watching the cassette tape wheels turn inside the clear window makes me feel like I’ve gone back in time. I’m in high school again and staying up too late at a sleepover with a friend.
But it’s not a friend I need tonight. I need a man to help me push my boundaries.
I collapse on the couch, body warm from dancing, sweat beading on my brow. Scrap falls into a comfortable slouch beside me, not touching. He has stripped off his hoodie, leaving his top half in just a ribbed tank. His tanned arms glisten with perspiration. He looks like a caramel treat, and I’m tempted to lick him. He has tattoos of superheroes and graffiti-looking symbols all over his arms and what I can see of his chest. One beautiful string of text stretches up his neck. I see it quiver with his pulse.
“That was super fun.” I eye the space between us, wondering why the guy who always has a flirty wink or saucy joke ready for me isn’t trying to make any moves. “Thanks. I love my present.” We’ve barely put a dent in the tapes and CDs in the bag. I probably have a thousand hours of music at my disposal now, and I couldn’t be happier.
“You’re welcome, baby girl.” He heaves a sigh and gets up. “Better get some shuteye. I’ve probably kept you up past your bedtime.” He extends a hand to me, and I take it, ready for whatever he throws my way.
But he doesn’t throw anything my way. We take turns using the bathroom, and then he kisses me on the cheek. “Goodnight, Cora.” He goes to the couch, pulls on his hoodie, and lies down, leaving me standing in the doorway of my room.
I frown at him in the dark. Sleeping in separate rooms isn’t going to help me get ready for my night with Grim.
“You’re supposed to sleep in my bed with me,” I blurt out. “Jud’s orders.”
Scrap’s chuckle is a gentle rasp in the cabin. “Your pickup technique needs work, baby girl.”
My cheeks grow warm. He’s not wrong. I’m far from a seductress, and that’s what I’m trying to be tonight, isn’t it? I want Scrap’s attention, and he’s not offering it, so I’m fumbling my way through asking for what I want.
I suppose I could make it more of an invitation.
“Um, how about this?” I’m wringing my hands as I call up my courage. “Would you like to sleep in my bed with me?”
I can’t see much of Scrap in the darkness, but the gleam of his teeth tells me he’s smiling. I can picture the dimple in the perpetual stubble he has on his face. I like his dimples. I like his style. I like a lot of things about Scrap, I realize. I actuallywantto spend time with him—like, intimate time. But I don’t like being the one to ask for that time. I’ve gotten kind of used to having the guys pursue me, not the other way around.
Uncertainty churns inside me, making me feel ugly and broken. Unworthy of gentle touches because I’ve been used harshly. I’m a hand-me-down that’s too dirty and banged-up to tempt a new owner to take possession of me. I hold my breath waiting for a response.
There’s no sign of movement coming from the couch. I guess Scrap’s staying put.
“What I’d like,” he says at last, “and what you need are two different things. I’m staying here.”
His tone of finality creates a jumble of feelings in me. On the surface, I’m relieved that he seems to want me. He doesn’t find me too battered or too ugly to be desirable. Deeper, though, is a frustration that this man who doesn’t know me very well thinks he understands what I need. He thinks I need, what? Distance? Time?
He’s wrong. What I need is to get over my fear of being penetrated by a man. The men here aren’t Leon. They deserve a chance to do what men and women do together—consensually—and the world needs children. So, whether I’m ready or not, I need Scrap to put something inside me tonight. His tongue? A finger? Not his penis. I know that much. Butsomething.And if I can bear it, I’ll be that much closer to overcoming my hang-ups.
My feet take me to the couch, and I unceremoniously stretch out beside him.
Scrap is on his back, with his hands linked behind his head. He lets out an “Oof,” as I plant a foot on the floor and use it to lever myself tighter against his side so I don’t roll off the cushion. Once I’m settled, I crook one leg over his hips to anchor myself, and I plunk my head on his shoulder. He has no choice but to wrap an arm around me.
“Then I’m staying here, too,” I say. I’m not crazy about my tone. I sound petulant. But I also need to push myself tonight.
I imagined the pushing would be more physical, but I guess pushing is pushing. If nothing else, I’m learning how to ask for what I want even when it’s uncomfortable. Maybe that skill will come in handy with Grim. And the others.
A sigh comes from Scrap, a reluctant acquiescence. He turns so we’re face to face and pulls me close. Victory!
With my leg slung over him, the new orientation of his hips opens me. We’re positioned in a provocative way, and it stirs an interest in my center. When I feel his erection through his jeans, pressing against my lower abdomen, I bite my lip. Maybe I’ll get to push some physical boundaries, after all.
“I’m trying to be a gentleman with you, here.” Scrap’s hand roams my back over my shirt. His touch leaves a tingling trail along my spine. My interest intensifies with a blooming warmth in my middle. “You’re not making it easy.”
“Maybe it’s not a gentleman I need tonight.” The words are bold and flirty, and they come automatically, pushed from me by the desire Scrap is igniting without even trying.
He whispers a long, drawn-out curse, and his hand cups one cheek of my bottom. Even through my sleep-sweats, I feel the heat of his palm and the imprint of each one of his fingers. “What do you need, baby girl?”
“I need you to fix me.”
