Page 15 of Trade (After the End #7)

He breaks the pod open, and before I can complain that I wanted it for my pocket collection, he pops out a dark brown seed.

“Check it out,” he says, dropping into a squat. I’m more than happy to rest, gratefully plopping on my butt and stretching my legs. “My dad used to do this.”

He rubs the seed hard against the rock and says, “Open your hand.”

I offer my palm. He presses the seed to my life line with his thumb and watches my face. The seed is hot, not burning, but warm from the friction.

Dalton curls his fingers so he’s holding my hand and waits for my reaction.

My lower belly swirls. Even crouched, he looms over me.

I have no doubt that even in the bunker, if he’d been a random intern or apprentice, his beauty would’ve stunned me, but out here, alone, it bulldozes straight through all the self-possession I’ve earned over the years.

I tingle. My mouth and brain disconnect. My hand curls around his thumb, pinning the seed between us, and my face blazes at my own boldness.

His lips tilt. “I used to think it was such a cool trick,” he says.

“It’s friction.” My voice is soft, breathless.

“Yeah, but when I was a kid, I thought it was magic. Whenever we saw pods like these, Dad would collect them, and at night by the fire, he’d do his trick, and the next day, we’d pass time trying to hit shit with them while we walked.”

An old story from school pops into my head. Johnny Appleseed. I know what his dad was doing. “It’s called scarification. We do it in the bunker with some of the legumes. You scratch the seed coat to make it easier for water to get in. It helps with germination.”

“Nah,” Dalton says, his soft lips curving into a real smile. “It’s called magic.” He rises to his feet, drawing me up with him. “Do you need to take a piss?”

Well, whatever magic there was is squashed. I shake my head and pull my hand loose, but I keep the seed.

We continue on. Every time he stops to wait, he has something to show me when I catch up. A bird’s nest. A hole that might house a critter, although he’s not sure what kind. A green, bumpy hedge apple he calls a “monkey ball.”

I have completely run out of room in my pockets by the time we break for lunch. He tells me to rest under a weeping willow while he ducks off to the nearby creek to fill our canteen.

When he comes back, he digs more dried fruit from his bag, as well as a hard, wafer-like cracker with a mild rye flavor. We eat in silence, both sitting cross-legged in our bare feet. It’s funny to see our boots side by side. His are almost twice as big as mine.

When we’re done eating, he rearranges things in his backpack while I scooch to lean against the trunk of the willow whose branches droop nearly to the ground, creating a fluttery umbrella that sways in the breeze.

The sunlight filters through the tapered leaves and dapples the grass.

I yawn as the carbs from the cracker hit me.

Dalton finishes with his rummaging and sits, bent-kneed, to watch me, his favorite pastime. He lazily gathers broken willow boughs within reach and begins to weave them together, looping one around another.

“What are you making?” I ask drowsily.

“Something.”

“So it’s a secret?”

“A surprise,” he says.

“You know I can see you making it?”

His lips twitch. “There’s no fooling Glory.”

I wish. A pang of sadness twinges in my chest. I will it away. This moment is good. I’m not letting anything drag me backward or forward. I live here, under a willow tree with a full belly and the prettiest man alive.

He winds one branch all the way around another and then does it again, tucking the ends, until he’s made a crown of leaves.

“Are you the king of the Outside now?” I ask.

He shakes his head. His mouth curves in an actual smile, not wide, and no teeth showing, but still, a genuine smile.

He shuffles forward until he’s kneeling at my feet. There’s speculation in his eyes, but it isn’t as predatory as before. He’s a mellow hunter, hungry but content that his prey has been lulled, and he’s about to feast.

He holds up the crown. “Trade?”

I hold my hand out. He’s been giving me things all day—black seeds and monkey balls and even a silver coin from the Before he somehow noticed in the grass. I fully expect him to hand me the crown.

He raises an eyebrow and sets the crown on the ground behind him.

“After,” he says and sits back on his heels, watching me, waiting. He knows that I know what he wants.

My belly stirs. The world around our willow fades. No one will ever know what I do here. No one can judge me. I find my zipper and slide it down, shrugging the coverall off my shoulders.

“I want to come this time,” I say.

“Yeah. I want that, too,” he says, no embarrassment, no defensiveness as he shucks his knives and shirt and pants.

“You have to do what I say.”

“All right, Glory.” He grins like I’m cute.

I narrow my eyes. “I’m serious.”

“Whatever you want, Glory.” He settles himself on his knees and peels my coveralls off the rest of the way until I’m naked. I tucked my panties in my pocket this morning. I couldn’t bring myself to wear them a second day, not in their condition.

Dalton cups my calves in his rough palms, his gaze raking down my body, head to toe and back again, always lingering on my face. My lips. My throat. He’s not afraid of meeting my eyes. How is he so blunt and shameless? Is that what living Outside does?

I want that. I want to suit myself, to want what I want without having to make it polite and palatable for public consumption. I lift my bare feet and brace them flat against Dalton’s thick thighs, pressing my soles into the hard muscle. The air feels strange on my pussy, cool but nice.

“I want you to stay right there,” I say.

“Okay.” His hand goes straight to his cock and starts stroking.

A breeze rustles the willow branches, whispers across my skin, and riffles Dalton’s gorgeous, messy hair. I part my knees a little farther and slip a finger between my folds and circle my clit.

“Is that how you like it?” he asks.

“One way.”

“You going to let me eat it?”

“Not for a willow crown.”

He smirks, not at all bothered by my sass.

Bennett always said he respects a strong woman, but a smart mouth is a different thing.

It’s not strength; it’s disrespect. He said it about other women—Susan Jordan from Human Management in particular—so I rolled my eyes and never took issue with it.

It was a warning, though. I see that now.

Dalton, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to feel disrespected at all. “Show it to me,” he says—demands—but with a sparkle in his deep brown eyes.

I let my knees fall all the way apart and use two fingers to open myself up. I’m wet, wetter than I ever get these days. He strokes himself harder.

“Are you going to come in two minutes again?” I ask.

“Probably.” His breath is coming quickly. “I’m going to come all over your pussy.”

“Okay,” I say, even though he’s not asking. He shuffles closer and rests his free hand on my bare waist, right above my hip bone. It warms my skin like the seed warmed my palm.

He focuses so hard on my finger as I circle my clit. I ease the skin back so the button pops from the hood, and he groans. “Put your finger inside.”

“Say please.”

“Please,” he says immediately and lets go of his cock for a second to grab my fingers and urge them toward my slit.

We tangle for a second until I say, “Leave off. You’re in the way.”

“My bad,” he says and chuckles, completely unabashed.

I grin back and slide my middle finger into the hole still swollen from yesterday and then go back to my clit to smear the wetness before the good feeling I’ve built can ebb too much.

“My turn,” he says, knocking my feet off of his thighs.

Before I can say yes or no, he shuffles forward on his knees, wedging my legs wide open.

He sticks two fingers in his mouth and then pushes them into my pussy, gently but with absolutely no hesitation.

My pussy spasms, and he groans, jerking himself faster.

“Don’t come yet,” I pant. “I’m getting close.”

“Can’t wait,” he says, grunts, and comes all over his hand. His body seizes, every muscle tensing, but he doesn’t stop fucking me with his drenched and sticky fingers. I buck my hips until he hits the spot I want, and I moan.

Our eyes lock.

“You like that?” he asks.

“You can’t tell?” I circle my clit faster and stretch my knees wider, hiking my butt higher, chasing the feeling gathering low in my belly. It feels so good. I want it to go on forever, and I don’t want to wait a second longer. I don’t know what I want. I want everything.

I want to be as smug and satisfied as Dalton.

No, I want him to be as knocked off kilter as I am.

I want this to be real—all of it—the beautiful man with eyes only for me, the green canopy and sweet air and skies miles overhead with no place I need to be, no time I have to be there, no alarms or duties or constant, soul-smothering sense of dread.

I want to fly into pieces, but I can’t. I’m stuck on the edge, and it feels so good, but it’s not enough.

Dalton’s lips tighten. I whine.

He shifts over me, never stopping with his hand, and sips at my lips, so thirstily.

“Tell me how it feels, Glory,” he says between kisses.

“Good,” I gasp as he works a third finger inside me.

“What would make it feel better?”

I don’t know. How am I supposed to think at a time like this?

“Should I stick one of these fingers in your asshole?” he asks. His pinky prods at my behind, and I squeeze my butt cheeks together.

“No. Please, no.” I don’t want that. At least, I don’t think I do. Bennett never tried that. My face is on fire. I can’t keep up—with the kisses, with my breath, with the way he just says anything.

“Tell me what to do, Glory,” he says, “I’ll do whatever you want.”