“Oh my god.” She clamps her hand over her mouth, her face now beet red. “Oh god, I have.” She buries her face in her hands.
I laugh. “Damn, I didn’t think it was that bad.”
“No, it wasn’t. You have an amazing pen—it’s huge, it’s—that wasn’t what I meant to say.” We both burst out laughing. She leans against me, her head falling half in my lap like we’re lovers sharing an inside joke.
“Sorry,” she says, sitting back up. “Anyway, what I meant was he never seemed to finish. He’d just like roll off and get up and take a shower.”
My stomach churns at the thought of Tim touching her—of any man touching her. Especially a selfish asshole who clearly didn’t prioritize her physical needs ahead of his own.
“Can I askyoua personal question?” She nods. “Did he make sure that you finished first?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
She tilts her head, chewing her bottom lip again.
“The fact you have to think about it says everything. Did you ever fake it?”
Her mouth opens then snaps shut again. “Yes.”
“Can I ask why? I mean, we both know how it works, if you communicate to your partner what excites you, what turns you on…” Her eyes grow heavy as I talk, her throat constricting as she swallows. “What makes you come…well, it might be uncomfortable at first, but it could save the relationship.”
She shrugs. “You’re right, and it wasn’t always this way. I think I just got tired of explaining it every time, you know?”
“I don’t think I do. Every time, meaning?”
“The best way I can explain it is this…imagine something you love doing or something that makes you feel amazing…like a massage. But every single time you go to your masseuse, you have to tell them step-by-step, over and over again what to do to make you feel good. It not only negates the relaxation aspect, but it’s exhausting, especially when the next time they completely disregard everything you already told them and do what makesthemfeel good instead.”
Is she seriously saying this idiot could never get her off?
“Did he ever make you come?” I know I’m drifting into seriously dangerous territory here, but between the rum and how intoxicated I am by her, I can’t seem to stop myself. The air suddenly feels thick and charged between us. I reach over, brushing a tendril of her strawberry blond hair from her face.
“Um, yes, but only a few times and not from—not sex.”
“You mean he couldn’t make you come with his cock?” She looks away, but I reach out and tug her chin to make her look at me. “Did he use his tongue or his fingers?”
Her breathing picks up. “His fingers.”
“Inside?”
She shakes her head.
“Hmm, so he never got you off with his tongue or his cock? What about the other men you’ve been with?”
She doesn’t answer right away. After a few seconds, she shakes her head.
“No?”
“There haven’t been any other men. He’s the only one I’ve been with.”
I can’t hide my shock. Now I see why she’s struggling to get over this asshole. She has a special bond with him.
“That’s the problem, sweetheart. You’ve been with a boy; you need to be with a man. A man who knows how to treat a woman, how to listen and watch your body respond to his touch so he can please you.”
She’s about two seconds from climbing into my lap, it’s written all over her face. Lust, desire, but also a touch of uncertainty. From what she’s been saying, she isn’t used to taking what she wants from a man. I want to show her she’s capable.
“It’s so hot in here,” she says, attempting to stand up, but her legs wobble. I reach out to grab her arm and pull her toward me, and she tumbles forward, about to land on her knees in my lap, but I grab her waist, slowly lowering her until she’s straddling me.