Chapter 5: His Door

We drove home with the windows down and the radio off.

Neither of us said a word.

A cold dry wind had blown in from the north, and it set the tin roof rattling as he parked at the porch.

He held the screen door for me.

In the dark kitchen he stopped with his hat in his hand.

"Your house," he said. "Your hallway. Whatever you want, Jemima, you only have to say it."

"That's very generous of you."

"It isn't generosity." His voice had dropped. "I just want you to be sure it's yours."

He went down the hall to the spare room, and I heard his door close, softly.

I stood in Orville's kitchen and listened to the wind.

I thought of the lease folder, and of Sir Ferdinand's pen turning once on his desk.

Then I thought of nothing at all.

I had made up my mind in the barn, and the rest was only getting there.

I took off Orville's boots at the door.

I padded down the hall in my socks, and I did not knock.

He was standing at the window with his shirt half unbuttoned and moonlight along one shoulder.

He turned.

"Jemima."

"Shut up," I said, and crossed the room.

I put both hands flat on his chest and pushed him back against the wall.

He went willingly, with a breath that was nearly a laugh.

"Say my name," I said. "Not like you're apologizing."

"Jem." His hands settled at my waist and did not move. "Jem."

"Better."

I finished his buttons myself.

He was lean and hard under the shirt, brown from the sun to the waist, with an old white scar over his ribs.

I kissed the scar.

He made a sound I felt against my lips.

I kept going down, kissing his stomach, and went to my knees on the wooden floor and opened his belt.

"Jem, you don't have to..."

"I know," I said. "I want to."

I took his cock in my hand, thick and hot and already wet at the tip.

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