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“Of course you mind being alone. We all mind being alone. We’re social creatures. We were built to fall in love, to have families, to build relationships.”
“But if you know you’re shit at something, sometimes it’s better to avoid it altogether.”
“You’re not shit at sex,” she tells me.
“How would you know?” I ask, my voice low.
“Because you do it a lot.”
I laugh. “Not as much as you might think.” The water has begun boiling and I slide the pasta inside, then grab some plates and silverware. “Can you lay those out?” I ask her, passing her the fork and spoon. “We’ll eat in here if that’s okay with you.”
“That works.”
The oven beeps and I pull out the bread, slicing it on a board before sliding it over. I test a piece of pasta and it’s perfect, so I drain the pot and add it to the sauce, stirring it lightly to make sure it’s all coated.
And when I plate it up, I’m satisfied. The sauce is made of roasted peppers and tomatoes, with some nduja sausage cooked and chopped into tiny pieces. It has a zing to eat, but it’s also hugely aromatic. When I pass Sophie her plate, her eyes widen and I like the way she looks surprised.
“You made this from scratch?” she asks me.
“Yep.”
She forks a piece of pasta and lifts it to her lips, sliding it inside. Her eyes widen as she swallows, then forks up a second then a third.
“This is so good,” she tells me between bites. Within five minutes the whole thing is gone. And I think I might have found the perfect woman.
After dinner I pour her another glass of wine – drinking water for myself because I’ll need to drive her home – and we slump on the overstuffed sofa in the living room. I pick up the remote and cue up the next episode of Grey’s, and Sophie kind of nestles against me. I find myself putting my arm around her so we can both feel comfortable.
Her head rests against my shoulder and I smell the shampoo she uses. It’s flowery and sweet. There’s a tendril falling against my hand and I rub it between my fingers.
“This is nice,” she murmurs, as Derek tiptoes out of Meredith’s house.
Yeah it is. Real nice. And then a memory hits me. Of the morning after I didn’t sleep with Sophie. The one that kind of changed everything between us. I’d been standing naked in front of her, she was wrapped in a towel. And she’d said something that hit me to the core.
“Hey,” I say. “If we didn’t sleep together why did you tell me I didn’t make you come?” I ask her.
She lifts her head to look up at me surprised. “Well you didn’t,” she says. “That bit wasn’t a lie.”
“But I would’ve. If I’d have had sex with you.”
She shakes her head but says nothing.
“What?” I ask, a little offended. “I would have. A gentleman always makes sure a lady comes first.”
“Yeah, well sisters do it for themselves these days. A guy has never made me orgasm, not without me helping him.”
“What?” I frown. “That can’t be true.” Can it? How the hell didn’t her previous boyfriends knock themselves out to make her happy? Jesus, I’d be burying my face between her legs until she was screaming my name.
“Of course it is,” she says, looking almost prim except for the dirty words coming out of her mouth. “Men seem to think that women should be multi orgasmic. But the fact is it takes a lot of work.”
“I know that,” I say. “But it’s the kind of work a guy should love. Nothing’s better than seeing a woman lose herself to pleasure.”
“Maybe they’re faking,” she says, smirking.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “It’s easy to tell if they are.”
She shifts in my arms, but I don’t release her. I like the contact too much. “Have you seenWhen Harry Met Sally?” she asks me. “That’s how easy it is for a woman to fake it.”
“Nah,” I say. “A man can feel when a woman comes. There are tells. Not just the clenching, though that’s fucking delicious. You guys get all blushed and breathless. And then sleepy.”
