Dixby came to mind, Olivia almost giggled. Then she stopped thinking at all.
Mourning had lightly rested the palm of one hand between her legs and was
moving it in a slow circular motion.
“Open your legs wider,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Olivia obeyed and peeked at him. For a moment she returned to awareness
and was curious. Had he done this before? He must have. He was working on
her body with the same look of concentration he wore while whittling a whistle
or mending a wagon wheel.
“Try to relax,” he said, as he bent her knees and pushed them apart. “You
gonna like it better if you do.”
He moved away from her for a moment while he took off his shoes. Then he
knelt between her legs. From beneath partly closed lids she contemplated the
tent pole pushing his pants out and thought, so that’s where it is, that’s how they
do it.
He unbuttoned his trousers and when he leaned over her Olivia went cold
with fear. But then he touched her again and she floated off on a cloud of sensation. Her feet were burning and the pleasure she felt between her legs was
so sharp it was almost painful. What is wrong with me? Do any other women feel
like this?
Mourning’s face hovered over hers for a long moment, as if giving her a last
chance to push him away. Then he put his hand to his mouth and touched her down there again, his fingers slippery with saliva, before he slid his hands under
her bottom, raised her up, and plunged into her with one long thrust.
Now there was pain. He pushed in and out, so heavy on her she could hardly
breathe, for what seemed forever. Finally he pulled out of her and issued a loud
moan. He rolled over with his back to her and lay still for so long that she began
to fear he had died.
Then he turned back and looked into her eyes again before kissing her, his
tongue exploring her mouth. Olivia put her hands on both sides of his head and
gently forced him to lift himself, so she could see his face. For that moment she
felt neither shame nor fear. She smiled, pulled him close to her, and kissed him
back.
“Open your legs,” he said and began touching her again, managing to make
her forget the burning pain.
When she woke the next day Olivia was alone in the bed. She listened for him, wondering if he had remained at her side last night or gone to the barn. She
wished she could sink back into the oblivion of sleep and forget what they had
done, but a dull pain down there made that impossible. Her face flamed red as
she relived the details. She felt moist and sticky between her legs and dragged herself out of bed to wash. Lifting her nightgown, she saw that her inner thighs
were streaked brownish-red. A smear of dried blood formed a sad-looking heart
on the bed, next to another light-colored stain. She tore the sheet off, dipped a corner of it into the water bucket, and used it to clean herself. Then she plunged
the sheet into the bucket, splashing the floor.
She crawled back onto the bare mattress, feeling desolate and paralyzed.
