CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
LINA
“ W hy do you have sex with so many girls?” The question leaves my lips before I can even think to control it.
“What?” Grant almost falls off of the couch.
I grab another Scrabble piece, placing it on the board before saying, “Your turn.”
We’ve been sitting here for hours, ever since I made Grant make me grilled cheese for dinner for the third night in a row.
The days we’ve been here have been pretty laid back, consisting of the same general schedule: us walking around the beach in the freezing cold, forcing Grant to take me around Martha’s Vineyard, eating grilled cheese in the evening, and playing Scrabble to close out the night.
Now, it’s our last night here, and there’s a huge part of me that never wants to leave this place. It feels like we’re suspended here, far away from the world we regularly know. Maybe that’s why I ask the question.
“Fuck that,” he says, his eyes still wide. “How are you gonna keep playing Scrabble after asking me that ?”
My weight shifts on the pillow I’m sitting on in front of the coffee table. “It’s just a question.”
“Just a question that came out of nowhere?” he asks, like he’s still trying to piece together how we went from quartz on the Scrabble board to this.
“I mean, it’s pretty well known that you have an active sex life.” I try to sound casual, but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding.
Grant lets out a long breath, pulling at the roots of his hair as he glares up at the ceiling.
“You don’t have to answer,” I add, sensing his frustration. “I guess I didn’t think a well-known sex god like yourself would mind talking about it.”
He chokes on a laugh. “Sex god?”
“Not my words.”
“Right, right, the masses,” he says, still smirking, but the tension is thick in his tone now. “You seriously think I give a shit about what anyone else thinks?”
I don’t want to look at him, not when I can feel the question lingering between us, and not when I can feel something else creeping up inside me—something I can’t quite explain.
It’s why I don’t say anything. At the same time, he goes silent for a long moment, and when I glance up, I can see that he’s not playing anymore. He’s watching me.
“I don’t care about the attention, or what the girls I’ve hooked up with have been spreading around campus,” he says quietly, his voice low, almost like he’s talking to himself. “It’s easier, you know? When it doesn’t mean anything. No strings. Just… sex. No mess. No attachment.”
There’s an edge to his words, and I realize too late that I’ve stumbled into something bigger than I meant to.
I can’t help but wonder what the reason is. Grant is too nice of a guy to avoid commitment in the way he does.
“Is that what it is between you and Savannah?” Him hooking up with his best friend’s twin sister—who’s also his friend—doesn’t exactly scream no strings attached.
He falters at the question. “It might not seem like it, but in terms of sex, that’s all it is between us.”
I raise a brow at him.
It forces him to continue. “Neither of us was interested in relationships. When we first hooked up, it was supposed to be one time, but it became an easy arrangement of sorts. We were already friends because of Braxton, and we kind of just added orgasms to the mix.”
I try to think about the sex I had with Gage, wondering if the reason I don’t see sex in the same light as Grant is because I don’t have much to go off of.
The only person I’ve had sex with is the same person who took my virginity when I was sixteen and then the one who cheated on me with my best friend. That memory is burned in the back of my mind.
Plus, it was never exactly a wondrous experience. It kind of felt like something I was supposed to do, like a box I had to check off. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t special, either. Gage was nice enough about it, but he was always so focused on himself. I told myself it was fine.
Maybe with Grant it would be diff— No. I quickly force myself to push the thought away.
Swallowing hard, I try not to let my face reveal what I was imagining. “I just don’t think sex is something that could ever be that good.”
I shouldn’t have said it, because the incredulous look Grant shoots my way makes me feel as though he’s seeing right through me—as if he’s easily identified that my ex sucked. I’m not sure why the idea embarrasses me. It’s not like that’s any reflection of me.
But now, by opening my big mouth, I’ve made it a reflection of myself.
“You are fucking the wrong guys, then,” is all Grant says.
Maybe the fact that Gage couldn’t make me come should have been a sign of the kind of guy he was before he cheated on me.
“Has there ever been a girl that you haven’t been able to give an orgasm?” I feel the need to ask.
Grant shakes his head like he can’t believe the turn this conversation has taken. He leans back on the couch, slinging an arm casually over the back of it, his grin lazy but his eyes locked right on mine.
“No,” he says easily, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But sometimes it takes a bit of work. Every girl is different.”
I can feel my entire body combust into flames. I practically melt into the floor, trying not to wonder whether my body is actually different from others or if there’s something faulty with it.
Despite trying to push the thoughts away, his confidence in his abilities makes me wonder if it was my fault my experience with Gage was so unpleasant. My mind lingers on what it would be like with Grant. I can’t help it.
“Do you think there are some girls who just can’t?” I keep my eyes on him, not allowing myself to become embarrassed.
Grant’s smirk fades. Not gone, just softer. “I think there are girls who have never been with a guy who gives a shit to take the time to figure them out. It’s not as simple as knowing where the clit is—it’s reading cues and understanding what someone likes versus what they don’t.”
“Good to know.”
“Good to know?” Grant meets my gaze then, and for a second, I can’t breathe. He leans forward, his hands resting on his knees, like he’s about to say something he doesn’t want to. “Are you telling me you’ve never?—”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” I cut in.
“You’ve never had an orgasm?” His tone isn’t teasing or cruel. It sounds like he’s concerned for me. Great.
“Okay, you don’t have to say it like it’s something I should be euthanized for,” I try to joke, but it comes out stale.
“It’s just irritating to me,” Grant says. “If a guy wants to be inside you, he should at least be interested in what your body likes.”
I can practically see where this conversation is headed. “I get it, Grant. You’re God’s gift to women, I remember.”
“I know campus likes to give me some kind of asshole-playboy status, and sure, I might have more sex than the average individual, but I’m a real gentleman in bed. I like getting girls off,” he retorts quickly. “That’s not knight-in-shining-armor-type shit. It’s basic decency.”
“Maybe they were all faking it,” I tease, but I don’t make it obvious.
We both know he wouldn’t have the reputation he does if he were a horrible lay. Even Savannah told me outright how good he is. None of that leaves me any room to doubt his ability.
He exhales with a quiet laugh, like I have no idea what I’m talking about. “Trust me,” he says, leaning back against the couch, his smirk deepening, “they weren’t faking it.”
I grab another Scrabble tile, pretending to study the board.
“Mm. Sounds like something a guy who’s never actually made a girl come would say.”
“Lina,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “if a guy says he can’t tell when a girl’s coming, he’s either an idiot, or he’s lying. It’s not exactly subtle when it’s real.”
My shoulders hitch, and I can feel my collarbone jutting out from my tank top with how rigid my body has become. This is definitely not the conversation I thought Grant and I would be having during our game of Scrabble.
But neither of us addresses whether it’s weird. We simply go back to silently playing. The air feels like it’s constricting around us.
It makes me feel the need to say, “You’re actually a nice guy, you know.” I kick his shin from under the coffee table. “You could be a good boyfriend.”
He stiffens. “I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me, pretty girl.”
“You never know,” I muse, tapping my fingers along the coffee table.
Grant barely reacts.
“Are we going to play, or are you going to keep interrogating me?” He grabs a Scrabble tile, his fingers brushing mine briefly as he does.
I look at him, at the way he’s pulling away again, and I know there’s more behind those walls of his. But I can’t decide if I want to know or if I’m afraid of what I’ll find.
“Your turn,” I mutter, my voice a little quieter now, the playful tone from earlier gone.
His eyes linger on me for a moment longer than necessary before he goes back to the game.
But neither of us is really playing anymore. Not really.