wonderful man like Mourning. What do they know, ignorant corn-crackers?
Then the voice changed its refrain. What’s the matter with you? His being colored has nothing to do with it. No one but a slut behaves like this with any man, of any color.
But Olivia couldn’t make herself care. She wanted to stay like that, with
Mourning’s arms around her. It felt warm. Safe. When had anyone else ever
cared about her he way he did? Besides, there was no one here to know, to talk.
No one. There was only her and Mourning.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mourning leaned back to look into Olivia’s eyes for a long moment. She
returned his stare, unblinking. When he pulled her close she took in a deep breath and clung to him, both arms around him and face pressed against the side
of his neck, eyes shut, close to tears. No one had ever held her this way. No touch had been so welcome, comforting and exciting at the same time. Her mind
remained shocked by what she was doing, but her heart wanted his body against
hers. Her aches and pains had disappeared; something else was flooding through
her.
He leaned away from her again and she opened her eyes. His gaze locked on
hers as he reached both hands behind his neck and took hold of her wrists. She
let him pull them away, releasing her embrace, but after a moment she raised her
hands again, placing her palms lightly on either side of his head.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“Move over.”
She slid down the mattress and farther toward the middle. He rose and shifted
his body so he was still sitting, but facing her. He put his hands on her shoulders
and continued to look into her eyes. Then he gently touched her face and
brushed her hair away. She took in another sharp breath when he placed his hand
on her breast and began tracing gentle circles through the cloth. Olivia closed her
eyes and lay still. She had never imagined her body capable of producing such
sensations and allowed herself to be lost in them.
Then she began to feel as if she were hovering over the bed, watching. There
is Mourning Free down there and, look, that girl is letting him put his hands on
her breasts. How can she do that? Isn’t she ashamed? No decent girl would let a
man do that. Warmth spread down her body, until the soles of her feet felt as if they were on fire. Tell him to stop. You must tell him to stop. You know he will, if you just tell him to.
But she kept silent and let him do as he pleased. When his hand reached
under the chemise and touched her down there, her only fear was that he would
stop. She didn’t know what she’d expected the things that men and women do
together to be like, but certainly not this. No one ever talked about it feeling good. On the rare occasion that women in Five Rocks could be overheard
whispering about the unspeakable, it was as something to be endured.
Olivia let herself drift into pleasure, struggling to push away the sense of shame that kept creeping up. When Mourning tugged at her nightgown she
cooperatively lifted her hips, letting him bunch it up under her arms. She turned
her head aside, eyes squeezed shut, astonished that she was allowing him to
study her naked body in the dim light. Then he placed his warm hands on her belly, ran them down to her thighs, and spread them apart. Had her mother and
father done this? Her father and Jettie Place? When the Reverend and Mrs.
