Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Right. His dad hates my brother. He pretends he doesn't, now that Cassie and Damon are dating seriously, but Dad is always complaining when will Tom realize Damon is a good kid.
I try to ignore it, since it's a) not my problem and b) not within my control, but that's the thing with boundaries. Somehow, no matter how clearly you draw lines, problems find their way into your space.
"And the groom invited me," he says.
"He invited everyone he knows," I say.
"Are you saying I got a pity invite?" His half-smile eases the tension in the air.
"A default invite. Probably worse. But mine is the same."
His eyes meet mine. "No, he needs you there to make him look like a night owl."
My lips curl into a smile too. "I'm going to stay out until eleven tonight."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
My stomach flutters. He's teasing me. That's way too appealing. I need to focus on something else. Something unattractive. Like the basket of sex toys for another woman. "When did you end things with the girlfriend?"
"A few months ago," he says.
"But you still have phone sex?"
He nods yes without judgment or shame.
"Why?"
"Uh-uh." He shakes his head. "This is about your sex-life, Dr. Freud."
My cheeks flush. "Is it?"
"That is what you're after, isn't it? A good fuck."
"Yes."
"So. Tell me. What makes a man a good fuck?"
Chapter Seven
Daphne
What makes a man a good fuck?
My throat gets dry. My mouth goes sticky.
How can both things be true at once? It defies physiology.
I understand what's happening here. The butterflies in my stomach aren't a romantic image of attraction. They're a stress response. My body reacting to the threat of the unknown.
My body is ready to fight or flight or freeze or fawn.
And I feel every drop of cortisol. My best friend's brother just asked me what makes a man a good fuck. The best friend who I'm abandoning for the East Coast.
I know, I started it. I asked him for help. I need his help.
This is the problem with theory. Everything makes sense, in theory, until you're face-to-face with a pounding heart and shaking limbs.
No.
I'm cool. I'm calm. I'm collected.
Okay, I'm not the picture of serenity, but I am a grown woman. I am capable of talking about sex in ways besides the academic.
Say, my preferences.
"How are you going to use that information?" I ask. Okay, it's a dodge, yes, but it's a fair counter-point.
He raises a brow, noting the dodge but not calling me on it. "I have a sixth sense."
"A sex sense."
"Yes." His voice is utterly matter-of-fact. Jackson Steele has a sex sense. Period. The end.
"Then tell me what I like."
"It's more polite to ask," he says.
So he already knows? "But you can tell?"
His eyes pass over me slowly. He takes in every inch, from my messy hair to my pink wedge sandals, then back up. He studies the lines of my legs, the hem of my shorts, the curve of my hips, the edge of my crop top.
He stares like he's picturing the clothes on the floor. Or in his hands. Or something even more untoward.
Okay, that's me.
I want his hands on my skin. I want to stop talking. I want to say how about, instead, you show me a good fuck, huh? But that's beyond out of the question.
"It's not that specific." His gaze meets mine. "More a—what would Cassie call it? A vibe."
Vibe doesn't sound like either of them, but I know what he means. It's not a cut-and-dry list of preferences. It's a feeling. Like my feeling Jackson wants to wrap his tie around my wrists. "What's my vibe?" Is it obvious I'm eager to experiment? Maybe it's obvious I want that tie around my wrists.
"I shouldn't answer that." He doesn't add because I want to fill those desires too badly, but it hangs in the air anyway.
I should accept his attempt to step back, I know, but I don't. "You're a tease."
"Always, yes." He catches himself. Takes an actual half-step backward. "This isn't about me."
"Maybe it should be," I say.
Concern flits through his green eyes.
"Maybe both of us need to find someone."
The knot in his brow softens. His shoulders fall. His expression shifts from worry to interest. It's all over his green eyes.
They are so much like Cassie's, but they're so different too. Harsher and softer at the same time. More of a grey-green. Less of a blue-green.
More stern.
More inviting.
What the fuck does that say about me?
No. This isn't a mystery for Dr. Freud. It's pretty simple. I grew up taking care of everyone else. I grew up as the perfect daughter, holding the family together.
Of course, I want to surrender.
To let someone else take care of me.
But I'm no more capable than I was this time yesterday.
"Was the sex good?" I know I shouldn't ask, but it's so much easier to talk about his problems than mine. "With your ex?"