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She gives a bashful smile. “You don’t have to seduce me, Marc. I’m a sure thing, remember?”
The thought sends a ripple of desire through me, but I ignore it and point to her plate with my fork. “You’re not finishing that?”
“It’s lovely, but…” She gives a little laugh and blows out a breath. “I’m too nervous.”
“Really?” I tip my head to the side. “You shouldn’t be. It’s only me.”
“Mm. I know. That’s kind of the problem.”
“What do you mean?” I’d assumed she would have been nervous with any partner.
She turns the stem of her wine glass with her fingers, giving me a puzzled look. “Because I like you. And even though this is just temporary, I want you to… like me too.”
“I do like you.”
“No, I mean… you know… in bed.”
I remember what she said about being worried she’d disappoint me. “Honestly,” I tell her, “I can’t think of a single way you could possibly disappoint me in bed.”
She rubs her nose. “I have wondered… maybe there’s something, you know, wrong with me. Because I’m on the spectrum, maybe it’s more difficult for me to… you know.”
“Have an orgasm?”
“Mm.” She chews her bottom lip.
I study her for a moment. It looks as if talking about orgasms over dinner is going to be a thing with Poppy and me. Fair enough. If we’re going to talk about it, I’m going to take my time and do it right.
“Do you want a dessert?” I ask her.
She looks surprised. “Er…”
“How about we share something?”
“Okay.”
I call the waitress over, and order a chocolate pudding and two more glasses of wine. Normally I wouldn’t have a second glass if I was driving, but bearing in mind we didn’t pass a single car on the way here, I figure another unit for the five-minute drive on a deserted road is going to be relatively safe.
When the waitress departs, I lean on the table and study the woman who is beginning to fascinate me more than any other woman I’ve ever met and tell her, “I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent convinced there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“That still leaves point one of a percent.”
“All right, then, I’m a hundred percent convinced.”
“I don’t know how you can be, if ten to fifteen percent of all women have never had an orgasm.”
“I know. I’ve read the stats. And I wish there was enough time for me to prove to them they’re wrong, but unfortunately there’s only one of me, and anyway, I’m only interested in one woman.”
Her lips curve up. “I can’t make my mind up whether you’re confident or arrogant.”
“Jesus, I’m not arrogant. It’s nothing to do with the guy. Well, it’s partly to do with the guy, obviously, but…” I frown. “What I’m trying to say is that from what I’ve read, there are hardly any women who are physically unable to achieve an orgasm. There are various reasons some find it more difficult. Often it’s psychological; they’re brought up to believe touching themselves and giving themselves pleasure is wrong, so they don’t masturbate. How can you tell a partner what you like if you don’t know yourself?” She looks out the window. “Is that what happened with you?” I ask gently.
She shakes her head. “My parents were always relatively open about sex. They never implied there was anything dirty or wrong about it.”
I follow her gaze, to where two seagulls are pushing and shoving each other for prime position on the highest rock. It gives me a thought. “What about Summer?”
Her gaze comes back to me then, somewhat sharp. “What do you mean?”
“She’s what… seven, eight years older than you? So you were going through puberty when she was at university and going with Zach. Did that have any effect on you?”
The waitress comes back with our wine, but Poppy doesn’t even notice, lost in thought, looking out to sea again. I sip the Pinot Noir, sensing I’m closing in on the problem.
