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Neediness teems between my thighs once more.
“And when you feel shit? Say shit.” Hogan hits me with a second unhappy glare. “Don’t fucking assume.”
Ugh.
Was that wrong?
Was I wrong for just jumping to the worst-case scenario and conclusions?!
Mmhm – I swear I hear in Gam Gam’s tone.
Shhh, ghost!
“Mowwww,” Noodle needlessly pipes in.
And why can my cat hear my thoughts?
Next cat?
Not gonna be a mind reader!
“I’m sorry.” Post a tiny bite to my lip, I confess, “I…this…dating…?” Words shuffle and reshuffle around, desperate to find the right order, “I suck at this.”
His brow furrows in confusion. “Talking?”
“Talking. Um…not talking.” Listing on my fingers thoughtlessly begins. “Social cues. Uh…subtext. Pretext. Norms.” I momentarily let my eyes wander upward. “Boundaries. Dating. Sex-”
“The fuck you do,” Hogan swiftly interrupts. “You’re good in bed.”
“How’s that possible?!” shoots free in a squawk. “I’ve had sex with like four people – including you!”
“Remind me to place an order for three graves with Bones when we’re done.”
“H!”
He haughtily chuckles; however, I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.
But…he probably is.
Right?
“Sex isn’t about the number, Teach.” Warmth expands across his expression. “It’s about the fun you have. And the sounds you make. And how the shit feels. And shit has never felt as good or sounded as good or been as much fun with anyone else.” An almost bashful beam is offered. “At least not for me.”
“Me either,” gets girlishly giggled prior to my hands hiding my face.
Which I’m sure is ridiculous to be my age and just now having had mind blowing sex.
“Don’t hide from me,” H lovingly scolds in tandem with rising to his feet. “Please, don’t ever hide from me, Emaline.”
I drop my hands to enjoy watching him stroll the short distance to me across my corner kitchen.
“Being with you is better than being on my bike.” His large, calloused palms plant themselves on my hips. “I like listening to you go on about shit. And teach shit. And not know shit-”
“You’ve gotta learn another noun substitute.”
More chuckles shake his frame. “And I like that you’re intelligent. That you don’t mind that I’m not.”
“You are!” There’s no stopping my hands from landing on his chest. “You’re fucking brilliant, H! Your poem about riding your motorcycle really being about sex with a woman was…” dramatic moans receive more laughs, “hot and definitely not classroom appropriate, making me glad I read it here in my kitchen alone rather than in front of students.” He begins to grin leaving me ample time to make a conversational change, “And now that we’re on the subject of students…”
