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I don't know anything about relationships, much less keeping them spicy long-term. But I know one thing—"It wasn't you."
She shakes her head.
"If it was that good for you, it was good for him too."
She looks up at me with surprise in her eyes. "But how do you know?"
"Because that's good sex." I'm not an expert, by any means. Most of my fucks don't qualify as great, but some were better than others. "You're in tune with the other person. Their pleasure is your pleasure. You touch them because you want to hear their groan. And they touch you because they want to hear yours."
Her smile is bittersweet. "You're such a musician."
"Would you prefer I describe it as poetry?"
"No. I'd rather you say what you really think."
"It is like music." It's better when you trust someone, but that isn't always necessary. And it's better with someone else, but that isn't always necessary either.
"It's different when you love someone. At least, it is for me," she says. "The love and sex get tangled. I don't know what comes from where."
"Maybe." I have to take her word for it. "But did you—" Fuck me. Why am I asking this? "You touched him?"
"Of course?"
"Sucked him off?"
Her cheeks flush. "Sometimes."
"You liked it?"
Her blush deepens. "Sometimes. He was kind of… It was a lot to take." She hides between her hands. "Did I just tell you my ex-boyfriend had a big dick?"
"Yeah, you did."
"Pretend I didn't say that." She peeks out from behind her fingers.
"No deal," I say.
She turns away from me. "It was too much sometimes. Uncomfortable. It takes me a long time, I guess. To really relax there. And back then I was on SSRIs, so I didn't have any natural lubrication, and I could only come half the time." She says it matter-of-factly, without shame.
Is that who she is, or has she worked through this? I don't have a problem laughing at my past whiskey dick, but I can't stand here and say now that I don't drink alcohol, I don't know how I'll ever fuck someone else. That's what's tangled for me. Sex and booze. It's really the same as sex and love, though. Because that's the only love I know.
That's self-pitying bullshit. Even in my head.
But enough of it is true.
It feels like love sometimes. Like a fucked-up kind of love.
"That was the first year or so. That's why it wasn't good for me. But it seemed like it was still good for him, even though…" She trails off. She doesn't want to finish the sentence. To ask herself how he could enjoy it when she was obviously uncomfortable.
I don't have that same qualm—I hate the bastard enough to assume the worst—but I don't have an answer either. "Was he as into it later?"
"No."
"So he liked it more, when you liked it."
She keeps her back to me. "Maybe."
"And when you did suck him off—"
"Can we use less evocative language?" she asks.
It's doing things to her, the way it's doing things to me. Thank fuck she's not looking at me. At my dick, specifically. I stare at the water. I channel unsexy thoughts. Baseball. Ice baths. My sister murdering me in cold blood because I fucked her best friend.
Nope. No good.
Knowing Cassie is off-limits only makes me want her more.
It's even worse. Certain parts of her are off-limits. Others are wide open. She begged me to kiss her, touch her, hold her.
For someone else's sake, sure, but she still begged me. And it's way too easy to carry that to its logical conclusion.
Cassie Steele, on her knees, begging for my cock.
My dick takes the driver's seat. "When you did that, you loved him?"
"After a few months, I think."
"Did you do it because you loved him?"
"No. Well, I guess that was part of it. Just not the primary reason. I think…" She stares at the water for a long time. "I did it because I was expected to do it."
"What was that like?"
She sits back, gathering her thoughts. When she starts, her voice is soft, but it's without shame. "I had a lot of conflicting feelings. I wanted him to want me. But I wanted him to not care about sex either. Because it was too complicated. And that… there was something simple about it. I liked that. I showed up. I made him come. I wasn't expected to groan enough to make Patrick Stump jealous. Only to not hate it."
"Did you hate it?"
"No," she says. "I liked the sensation… Am I really saying this?"
Daphne will murder you. Murder. Dead. Forever. "I promised not to laugh."
"Is it that bad? Is the thought of my oral sex skill laughable?"
Far from it. "That's not what I mean. I mean…" What the fuck do I mean? It can't be the thought of your skill is so sexy I'm about to come in my pants. "Everyone is insecure sometimes. It's normal."
