Chapter 7

SEVEN

Here’s a question: How do you ask a person to sleep with you?

It doesn’t sound like rocket science, but oh boy does it feel like it.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my biggest problem when it comes to sex is the decided lack of practice.

I’m not totally inexperienced. There are a few pre-scars handjobs and blowjobs on my résumé. Quick, fumbled moments in Danny’s bedroom under the guise of doing homework while his mom was downstairs, cooking dinner.

It mainly comes down to being afraid and insecure. High school was a bit of a nightmare after everything, and then when I had finally talked myself up enough to try anything again with that new body of mine? Well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. There was a guy I met the summer after I graduated high school. Cory. We hung out. He was fun. Easygoing. And he was still all those things even after I took my clothes off. It’s just that he was also very clearly uncomfortable and not at all into me the moment he saw me naked, which didn’t really help with my already abysmal confidence issues.

Enter Ethan. I think the right way to put it is that he pursued me. And he was sweet and understanding and persistent and gave me butterflies, and I did my level best to make sure he’d never see me naked because I actually liked Ethan, so I didn’t want this thing between us to end up being Cory vol. 2. Which meant sex in the dark, lights off and curtains drawn. Not too much touching. Always too tense to actually enjoy anything about the process, and since Ethan is the nicest guy out there, he put up with it and tried to do everything humanly possible to accommodate all my weird hang-ups. In return, I only got more paranoid.

After two months of dating, he walked in on me when I was changing my shirt, and I flipped the fuck out. So he dumped me.

It’s been two years.

And all the while, other people are out there fucking like rabbits and waxing poetic about the experience, and I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to have really great sex. Or maybe I’m setting the bar too high. I should be wondering what it feels like to even have a sex life, because I don’t have one. Which would be fine if I didn’t want to have sex, but I do. I just have so many hang-ups by now that it feels easier to go without than to start addressing the mess inside my head.

So here’s what I’ve come up with: I need to desensitize myself. I need somebody brutally honest, who won’t try to be nice about the whole scars-thing and will just lay it out for me point-blank if it’s going to be an issue and whether, in theory, somebody who’s set their mind on sleeping with me will find me… palatable.

Then, if it turns out it’s not an issue, they can give me some hands-on experience.

And I have the perfect man for the job.

Sutton.

First of all, he’s made no secret of his desire to fuck me. Granted, he doesn’t have all the necessary information to make that decision, but first things first, there’s willingness.

Second, I have a few months of therapy sessions under my belt now, so in theory, I’m less prone to blind panic.

Third, he’s been very clear that all he wants is sex, which is good. There’s no danger of feelings getting involved and everything getting messy and complicated like it would if I had a crush on him. We’ll never have to see each other again, and at least in theory, I won’t take it too personally if it all goes to shit.

At the same time, he’s not a complete stranger, so it feels more manageable to do it with him. He’s the right amount of unfamiliar for test driving sex.

And last, the guy has no filter. A thought enters his brain, and he spits it out. Which might not sound like the best thing in theory, but in reality it’s exactly what I need. I don’t want carefully calculated responses. I’m well beyond wanting somebody to treat me with kid gloves.

I want honesty.

As much as I love Remy, Jordan, and Theo, they are not anywhere in the vicinity of unbiased.

No. What I need is some impartial, not sugarcoated, brutal truth.

And Sutton is the man to deliver it to me.

Which brings me back to my original question. How do you ask a person to sleep with you?

I just have to come out and say it, I guess, but what exactly do I say? What words do I use?

Have sex with me?

Fuck me?

Would you fancy a meeting between our penises?

I mean, any of those would get the meaning across effectively enough, so I guess my answer is any of those?

Maybe not that last one.

I groan and rub my palms over my face. I’m overthinking this, but I can’t help it. Since I met Sutton, I’ve never been nervous when talking to him, but I’m making up for lost time now.

Plus, well, you learn something new every day, and what I’ve learned over the course of the last few hours of this lovely Friday is that it is pretty much impossible to find a good opening to ask somebody to have sex with you.

Which means now the plan is to try and steer the conversation anywhere in the vicinity of sex and go from there. You’d think it’d be easy enough with Sutton, seeing how he manages to turn absolutely everything into an innuendo.

Only not today.

Figures he’d suddenly take a break from constantly propositioning me now of all times. Now, when I actually want him to do it. Because instead of making hints about getting into my pants, he’s spent the last hour and a half telling me about a book. He read. As a kid.

Not only that. No, he’s describing it to me in painfully specific detail because he doesn’t remember the title or who wrote it, and my braincells are collapsing from exhaustion because no matter which way I spin it, I can’t fucking turn the conversation in the direction I need it to go when the main topic of conversation is a fucking children’s book, for crying out loud.

“I think there was a dog in it.” Sutton drags the mop over the floor as he moves backward. “I want to say a black lab, but it also might’ve been a golden retriever, but now that I really think about it I might be mixing up two wholly different books because the dog doesn’t really fit into it?” He stops for a moment and squints. “Or maybe it was a horse? Do you know a kids’ book with a horse in it?”

I blink and try to get my mind back on track and away from sex. “I figure there are a bunch of horse books for kids.”

“A horse still doesn’t sound right.”

“Okay?”

He leans against the mop handle. “How many kids solve crimes with a pet horse in tow?”

“Very few?”

“On second thought, I’m probably imagining the horse,” he says thoughtfully.

“Uh-huh.”

He finishes mopping the floor and plops the mop into the bucket.

“Did any of it sound familiar to you?”

“No?” I frown. “What’s the sudden preoccupation with children’s books?”

“Just popped into my head the other day when I was hanging out with—” He stops abruptly. There’s a beat of silence, but then he continues. “Anyway, it won’t leave me be. Like when you’re vaguely aware of a melody and can’t remember which song it is.”

I stare at him, and he raises his brows at me in question.

I shake my head, grateful for the distraction. “Just trying to imagine you as a kid.”

“And?”

“I’m thinking you were one of those exasperating little smartasses,” I say. “Really charming but exhausting.”

He laughs out loud. “You’d think, right?”

“You weren’t?”

“Not really.”

“Well, what were you like, then?” For the moment everything else in my head becomes background noise, because for some reason I find myself entirely too invested in the response.

It takes a long time for him to answer, and it’s as if I can see the thoughts racing around in his head.

“I was very quiet,” he finally says. I’m pretty sure I detect some hesitancy in his voice, like he’s not sure he should be revealing that information.

“Really?” I ask, and I can’t really hide the surprise in my voice.

He grins at my tone and nods. “Honest to God. I mostly kept to myself. Really shy. At least, before I met Quinn and his whole family.”

I can’t decide whether he’s telling the truth or pulling my leg.

Finally, I shake my head. “I can’t really picture that.”

“You’re sadly lacking in imagination. That’s disappointing.”

I make a face at him, and he laughs again.

“What about you?” he asks. “What were you like?”

I snort out a laugh and meet his gaze.

“Really outgoing.” I grin at him. “One of those little smartass shitheads that drove all the teachers insane.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re fucking with me.”

I waggle my brows at him, and his suspicious expression makes me laugh again.

“I’m not. I actually was the annoying, exhausting kid.”

He studies me for the longest time before he says, “Huh.”

It’s my turn to send a questioning look his way.

“You know what? I can totally see it.”

“Yeah?” I ask, lips twitching.

“Hell, yeah. You’re a smartass now, too.”

“I’m really not.”

“I beg to differ,” he scoffs. “You’re sarcastic as fuck.”

“I’m not,” I argue.

He just sends me a skeptical look.

“You bring it out in me.”

“It’s a service I’m providing. I’m very good at it.” He sends me one of his smug grins and gets back to work.

It’s going to be weird doing this alone next week.

And no. That’s not a thought I’m going to entertain. It’s only been a week. Five days. Not even a full week, so it’s not going to be weird. Things will just go back to normal.

We finish work, pack away the cleaning supplies, and head outside.

I still haven’t asked him to sleep with me, and I’m sort of preparing myself for chickening out because maybe it was a stupid plan anyway, and maybe a complete stranger would be easier. What I’m saying is, I’m copping out because I’ve tried nothing and am all out of options.

I lock the door and turn around to find him eyeing me with a look on his face that I can’t decipher.

I wait for him to say something.

He looks some more.

“Do you want to grab a drink?” he asks once he’s made up his mind about whatever it is that makes him look at me with that weird expression on his face. “I’ve paid my dues. I think it deserves a drink.”

I’m so surprised about being presented with this one last opportunity to proposition Sutton that I take way too long to answer, which results in him sending me an amused smirk.

“I’ll be on my best behavior, I swear.”

Fuck’s sake!

Instead of saying something like, ‘No, no. Feel free to make all the double entendres and sexual remarks you like,’ I go with a counterproductive, “That’s fine.” In my head it sounds like I’m saying it’s fine to hit on me. Fine and even welcome. It comes out as, ‘Oh, thank God, sex is off the table.’

That’s self-sabotage taken to a whole new level.

“I could go for a drink,” I say decisively. I can turn this around. I don’t know how yet, but I will somehow do it.