Crazy Imperfect Hearts

Chapter Eleven

Lucas

“What? No…”

She turns away slightly. She’s lying.

“And you faked it last time.” I give her a nudge. “No judgment, remember. We can be ourselves here.”

An arm flies over her face, covering her embarrassment. “Okay, yeah.”

“Can I ask why?”

She laughs maniacally. “How much time do you have?”

I get rid of the condom and lie back on one of her pillows. “As it so happens, a lot.”

Her arm falls to the side of her head as she pulls a sheet over herself. “I thought you were too drunk to remember. Or was that just a ruse to get me back into bed?”

“I didn’t remember much at first. It was fuzzy. It came back to me slowly, but I just had this… feeling. About you faking it.”

She blows out a huge sigh. “I thought I’d perfected it.”

“Okay, wow.” I turn and prop up on an elbow. “I’m not sure if it makes me feel better or worse that I’m not the only one you faked it with.”

“There’s nothing to feel bad about. Some women just have a hard time.”

“I get it. But why make us think you got there when you didn’t? If you don’t give us a chance, it’ll never happen.”

“Men don’t get it.” She shakes her head. “There’s the point you get to where you’re all in your head. You’re thinking too much. Am I going to come? Why’s it taking so long? Is he getting bored? And once you reach that point, it’s pretty much over.”

“So you don’t even try? Not even with new guys?”

“Been there, done that.” She snorts. “I gave up hope a long time ago. It’s just easier this way, believe me.”

“So you’ve never?” I try to wrap my head around it. She’s thirty-five. What a fucking shame if it’s never happened for her.

“I have. I used to sometimes. Sparingly. Never during actual sex, but it happened. Not for well over a decade though.”

“Ten years?” I bolt up, staring down at her in the dim light. “You haven’t had an orgasm in over ten years?”

“Oh, I’ve had plenty. Just not with men.”

I scrub my hands across my jaw. “Shit.” I brush an errant hair off her forehead. “What happened ten years ago that changed things?”

“It was thirteen, actually. And his name was David.”

Hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “David? Who the fuck is David?” I think. “Wheeler?”

She shakes her head. “You don’t know him. I met him in college.”

“Who was he?”

Her eyes close briefly. It’s so telling. “Nobody.”

“I don’t believe that for a goddamn second. Did he hurt you?”

When she doesn’t respond. I touch her arm firmly but gently. “Regan, did he hurt you?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“There are other kinds of hurt, Regan. Not just the throwing punches kind.”

She nods, eyes closed once again. “Then, yeah, I suppose he did.” She rolls over, away from me. “Be a sport and cork the wine before you leave. It’d be a shame if it went to waste.”

And there it is. She’s kicking me out again. “Sure thing.”

I get out of bed, dress quickly, and go into the other room, the whole time my mind on this David and what he could have done to put her in the position she’s in.

The wine corked and the cheese tray covered and put away, I turn to the sound of hissing.

It’s her damned cat. The creature fucking hates me.

“Joey, is it?” I say. I crouch down thinking it’s my size he doesn’t like. “We can be friends, can’t we?”

He scampers out from behind the couch, never taking his eyes off me, then darts into Regan’s bedroom.

What’s the point? I’m fairly sure I’ll never see the feline again after tonight.

On my way out, I glance at a few pairs of those crazy tights she wears tossed over the backs of chairs.

My hand on the front door handle, I look behind me, realizing how it saddens me to think this is the last time I’ll be here.

The entire way home, I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s faked it for thirteen years. Almost all of her adult life. Does she not like sex? No—not possible. She was wet. Really wet. So wet in fact, she’s one of the few women I’ve not needed lube with. She wanted it. She wasn’t faking all of the sounds she made. The ones when I sucked her tits. Drew her clit into my mouth. Crooked my fingers inside her.

She can come. She admitted it. So it’s not physiological. It’s psychological—in her head like she said. It’s a damn shame, though, because I’ve heard women tend to enjoy sex more the older they get. She should be entering her prime years. She should be able to enjoy them.

I wish there was something I could do.

I laugh out loud in my car, thinking how stupid that sounded in my head. It’s not like I can teach her how to have an orgasm.

I stop at the one and only traffic light in town and look up at the darkening sky.

Or can I?

When the light turns green, I stomp on the gas, go back to my place, and devise a plan.