Page 92 of Heartland

She blinks. “So now it’s your turn to throw down a challenge?”

“Apparently.” I give her a shrug, pretending to be casual even though all my blood has begun traveling south. We stare at each other for another long moment, and then I grin. “But don’t forget to do number thirty-two, first.”

She lets out a little squeak of irritation and then picks up her pencil.

I guess it’s really no surprise that problem thirty-two takes an excruciatingly long time. For both of us. She has to factor the equation three different times before she gets it right.

But eventually she solves the whole thing and throws down her pencil.

“Check your units,” I say mildly. Although myunitis as hard as a fence post right now.

She adds a dollar sign to the answer. Then she pushes back her chair, gets up, and leaves me sitting at the table.

The seconds drag by until Chastity returns a few minutes later, looking a little hesitant, her cheeks deeply flushed.

When I stand up to meet her, Chastity looks me right in the eye and then places a scrap of fabric in my hand.

“I just want you to know,” I say in a serious, quiet voice, “that I’ve never in my life prayed for underpants until just a moment ago.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” she whispers back. “Now put those away before someone sees.”

Twenty-Eight

Chastity

As Dylan shovesmy panties into his pocket, I’m thinking—I cannotbelieveI just did that. And I can’t believe he asked me to. It’s as if Dylan Shipley looked right into my dirty little heart and understood me for the first time.

It’s too good to be true. I don’t even know what to do next.

Dylan does, though. He grabs the gift bag off the table. “Hold this. I’ll carry your backpack.” He yanks that into his hands, shoving my algebra notebook inside and zipping everything up hastily.

He’s in a big hurry. My coat appears suddenly at my shoulders so that I can slip my arms inside. And then a strong arm wraps around my back, as Dylan leads us toward the exit.

“Don’t you have a coat?” I ask as we hurry past bookworms and sleepy students studying for midterms.

“Nope,” he says. “I’m from Vermont. I run hot.” Then he gives me a glance thatsmolders.

Wow. It’s disorienting to finally get this kind of attention from Dylan. I hurry to keep up with his long strides.

“I have my truck,” he grunts as we step outside. He steers me toward the parking lot, and in no time at all, he’s opening the passenger’s door and boosting me up to the seat. A blast of cool air finds my bare body beneath my skirt, and I clench my legs together with surprise.

The door slams, and Dylan reappears on the driver’s side a half second later, just as I’m reaching for the seatbelt.

But I don’t even get there, because two strong arms yank me against his chest. I gasp with surprise as his mouth claims mine. Impulse kicks in immediately. With a whimper, I go limp in his arms, molding my body to his, softening under his touch.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “I need to be inside you. I want it so bad.” His tongue invades my mouth, showing me just how urgently he needs me.

I tremble as his hand slides down my body, reaching under my skirt. As his hand skims up my thigh, I have to fight the impulse to be modest. Kissing a boy in a car is how I ended up with scars on my backside.

But I didn’t run away to Vermont to be afraid. So I grip Dylan’s flannel shirt in two hands and kiss him fiercely as his slow caress approaches. And then his thumb isrightthere, brushing tenderly over the mound between my legs.

He groans loudly. “I have got to get you home,” he says, pulling back, his eyes bright, his face flushed. “Like, yesterday.” And I’m not going to argue. “Put on your seatbelt, because my abilities are impaired right now. Good thing it’s a five-minute drive.” He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to clear it.

My seatbelt clicks into place, despite my shaking hands. And then it’s a long five minutes to Spruce Street. And quiet, because this turn of events has left me speechless. It’s almost too good to be true.

Tutoring, though. It’s still just a fun time for him. A tutor isn’t a serious role in someone’s life. It’s just extra.

My algebra class ends at Christmas time. I wonder if Dylan’s interest in me will last even that long.