Dirty. Megan Hart

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      “Good,” he said, as though that settled things. And it did.

      He took me to an arty, independent film with subtitles, the plot of which I had difficulty untangling but enjoyed anyway for its lush visuals. We had dessert in the theater’s attached coffee shop, where he challenged me to a game of Scrabble in which he spelled words like “cleft” and “slick” for a triple word score. We traded limericks, and he seemed impressed I knew so many. We laughed so loudly we turned heads, and I didn’t even care. He didn’t touch me, though I wanted him to.

      He invited me back to his apartment for drinks. I agreed. I wanted to see the place where he lived. I wanted to see his bed.

      He served me Guinness in a pint glass and didn’t insist on using coasters, though his furniture looked new enough to require them. He settled down beside me on his leather couch as easily as though we’d spent months together instead of hours, and he asked me questions about the movie as if he cared about the answers.

      I’m not completely socially incompetent. I do have to know how to interact with clients, give presentations, make appointments, shake hands and make small talk. I can do those things sufficiently, if not with ease. If anything, I would imagine people would describe me as aloof, taking my silence at times for standoffishness rather than awkwardness. I’m still the girl who sat in the front of the class, ready to answer all the teacher’s questions. I just lost most of the answers somewhere along the way.

      Dan didn’t make me think too hard. He led me through the maze of conversation without hesitation, as easily as if he’d taken my hand to keep me from stumbling over a crack in the pavement. He talked a lot about himself, but not in an obnoxious way. It soothed me to hear his anecdotes of high school soccer games and college frat parties. I didn’t have stories like that. Normal stories. Hearing the tales of others fascinated me. Maybe it should have made me bitter with envy, but it didn’t, not any more than a fairy story made me envy the princess who could weave gold from straw.

      Anyone who’s ever spent time with someone who seems enthralled with every word you say knows how intoxicating that can be. His eyes watched my mouth move. He listened to me, engaged me in conversation, drew forth answers that surprised me with their honesty. I told him about my house and my job, my favorite television show and the fact I love anything chocolate but not hot fudge.

      All because he listened. Was I so starved for admiration his good manners seemed like more to me? No. It was him, Dan, entirely, and the fact he listened to learn about me, not as a reason to have me learn about him.

      I was in the middle of a sentence when he leaned in to kiss me. The contact startled me. I hadn’t been expecting it, hadn’t had time to turn my face. His mouth was soft and warm on my lips. I tasted salt from the popcorn. His hand came up to touch my face, strong fingers on my cheek.

      I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kiss him on the mouth, that gesture more intimate than taking him inside my body. I turned my face, broke the kiss, didn’t finish my sentence.

      “No?” He asked, breath hot on my ear.

      “No.”

      He slid his hand down to caress my breast. “But this.”

      I turned my head to look into his eyes. “Yes.”

      Something flickered in his gaze. Got harder. His hand slid up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. He pulled, tilting my head back and exposing my throat.

      “And this,” he said, pressing his lips to the spot where my pulse beat, beat, beat, skipping.

      His teeth grazed my skin, and I gave a little gasp. “Yes.”

      His mouth trailed lower, to the jut of my collarbone. His fingers tightened in my hair, and I gasped again at the mingled pleasure/pain. He sucked my skin between his teeth, the tip of his tongue circling against it. His other hand found my breast and he thumbed my nipple erect. His hand slid lower, between my legs.

      “And this.”

      “Yes…” The word sighed out of me.

      “Stand up.”

      I did.

      “Take off your clothes.”

      My hands went to the buttons on my shirt. I slid them from the holes, my fingers trembling. Fear and fierce desire can almost feel the same, sometimes. I slipped off the shirt, let it fall to the floor in a way I’d never done if alone.

      I wanted to see his eyes fill with desire, hear him hiss in a breath at the sight of me. Dan watched me, his face unreadable. I flushed, heat creeping up my throat to paint my cheeks. I wanted to put my hands on them to cool them. Instead I undid the button and zip on my skirt and let that puddle to the floor, too.

      I wore fine things beneath my clothes, panties and bra of black lace and satin and flattering cut. The bra pushed my breasts together, creating creamy-skinned cleavage. The panties rode low on my hips and cut high in the back to reveal the curve of my ass. The black looked darker against my skin, pale from being kept out of the sun, and I knew he could see the darker triangle of the hair between my thighs.

      I stood in front of him, trying not to shake, though the desire that had made my fingers tremble now made my legs want to buckle. I’d been naked in front of men before. Had let them look at my body, judge it, praise or find flaws with the curve of belly, the jut of my hipbones, the weight and shape of my breasts. For them, I’d worn my body the way I wore my clothes, as something practical to be used for a purpose. A function.

      In front of Dan, I’d become more than hip and thigh and cunt. He looked at my body knowing my real name, the way I drank my tea, the sound of my laughter. My nakedness came from what he knew about me, what I had let him know, those tiny, irrevocable intimacies I never share with anyone.

      “The rest. Take those off, too.” His voice had grown thick, proof of his desire, and it gave me courage.

      This part I knew. How a glimpse of pink could render a man mindless. We all have the same parts, us women, yet every man I’ve ever been with has looked at me as though he’s never seen a naked woman before. There is power in our bodies that men don’t have, secret and hidden places they yearn to explore over and over. Women’s bodies hold the mystery of blood and life, not just pleasure.

      I reached behind me to unhook my bra, the movement thrusting my breasts forward. I watched him watch me as I let the straps fall down my shoulders. As I let the cups fall away to reveal my flesh.

      He leaned back against the couch, his cock pushing at the front of his khaki pants. I wasn’t the only one flushing. Red tinged his cheeks, too, and he licked his mouth as he watched me.

      “The panties.”

      I hooked my thumbs in the sides of the lace and eased them over my hips. I did it slowly, enjoying the look on his face as he focused. I parted my thighs and cocked my hip, slid the fabric down my ass and over my thighs, then let them fall to my ankles. I stepped out of them and stood, at last, completely naked.

      “Fuck,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. “Turn around.”

      I did, one rotation.

      “Touch yourself.”

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