Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Daphne
W hat 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?"
"Good, but not great. Until we broke up. Then it was."
"Why do you think that is?"
"How much am I paying for this session, Dr. Freud?"
"Dr. Freud would say you're obviously anal-retentive and so you're into pegging."
"Would he?" Jackson raises a brow. "I don't remember that part of Physc 101."
"If he was around today," I say.
"Are you into pegging?"
"No," I say. "Have you tried it?"
"No," he says. "But I would if a girlfriend asked."
How the fuck did we get on this topic. "Really?"
"It's only fair."
Fairness again. That's a thing for him. "How is that?"
"I try to stay open-minded."
That isn't how I'd describe him.
"To try anything once," he continues.
"Is that what you expect from your girlfriends?" I ask.
"Not necessarily," he says. "Sometimes, you know something isn't for you. Instinctively. But if it's a maybe, I try to give it a shot. And I ask the same."
"And if you're going to stick it in her ass, she should be able to stick it in yours."
He does the last thing I expect. He laughs.
"Is it that funny?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He shoots me that same really look Cassie has. "Ask yourself that question."
"Do you… is that something you're into?"
"Not in particular," he says. "But I honor requests."
"And your ex. Was she into that?"
"Into what?" He challenges me to say the words out loud.
Right. I'm a sex researcher. And I started this conversation. "Into anal sex?"
"She was," he says. "She liked the taboo of it. She was like you."
Is that my sexual aura? Is there some combination of body language, tone of voice, and dress that says yes, please stick it in my ass?
He laughs at my awkwardness. "A fan of Dr. Freud."
Huh?
"A shrink. But not one who saw patients. Not normal patients. She was an expert witness."
"Isn't that a job for older people?" I ask.
"Usually," he says. "She was a little older than I am."
"Do you like older women?" I ask.
"I like their confidence," he says. "I like a woman who knows what she wants."
Do not say anal sex. Do not say anal sex. Stop thinking about—I'm not even saying it in my head . I bite my tongue and swallow the ridiculous thoughts that try to find my lips. I am not flirting with him. No way. No how. "Why was it better after you broke up? In your best estimation?"
He doesn't call me on the change of topic. "She was holding back, before. We both were."
"What changed?"
"We stopped assuming we'd get married." He says it with a sort of finality. As if he's not willing to elaborate or explain.
I try to fill in the blanks. A Madonna whore complex, maybe. Common with men. Where they can only see a woman as pure and virginal (a proper wife) or dirty and sexy (a whore).
But he said it was her too. So, did she see him that way or herself?
A man is either a husband who enjoys missionary with the lights off or a freak who wants to tie you up and stick it in your ass.
Fuck.
And I was doing so well.
I'm not even interested in anal sex! What the fuck is wrong with me?
I tried it once with one of the boyfriends who claimed our sex life was lacking because it "had gotten stale."
It was fine. A little uncomfortable. A lot awkward. Not at all sexy.
I never wanted to try it again.
But it would be different with Jackson. Everything I've tried would be different with Jackson.
No. I'm focusing on his dysfunction, not mine. "Was that a mutual decision or did one of you want something else?"
"I couldn't give her what she wanted," he says. "We both agreed on that. We parted on good terms."
Right.
"She told me to hook up with someone here." He shakes his head this is ridiculous . "Minutes after I talked her off, she told me to go hook up with someone."
That is a very vivid mental image.
He doesn't notice the distraction in my expression. "She says that's the only way I know how to have fun."
"Well—" I bite my tongue. I shouldn't call the guy a square—I mean, he just said he'd try pegging!—but let's face it. In all other ways, he is.
"You agree?" he asks.
I mime zipping my lips again.
"No. Tell me the truth. It won't hurt my feelings."
"Really? If I say you're no fun, I hate hanging out with you. That wouldn't hurt?"
"The latter would. Not the former," he says.
"I wouldn't describe you as fun, no."
"And you?" he asks.
"What about me?" I ask.
"How would you describe yourself?"
"Well, I'm not talking off my exes at work," I say. "But I enjoy myself."
"Oh yeah, turning in at nine to watch Doctor Who ?" A teasing tone drops into his voice.
Which is way too sexy. Especially since he's so wrong.
Doctor Who is amazing, and what is more fun than watching TV on the couch with your best friend? Or at least on the couch on your own.
It's the only time of day when no one expects anything from me. And it's still a more traditional form of fun than any of his supposed outlets.
"All right counselor," I say. "Maybe neither of us knows how to have fun. I can cop to that if you can."
His smile shifts to something else, something dirty.
No. That's me. I have some cross-examination lawyer fantasy I'm playing out in my head.
This is normal conversation between friends.
"An admission of guilt." His arm brushes mine as he leans closer. "That's out of the question. I need some sort of immunity deal."
I let my arm brush his back. The soft linen of his shirt against his bare skin.
Why does he look so good in that short-sleeved linen button-up and slacks? He should look like a dork, but he looks hot as fuck.
He always wears white, and he's never got a stain.
He defies logic.
"How does that work?" I ask. "I promise not to make fun of you for watching Murder, She Wrote . You promise not to call me a fuddy duddy."
"Something like that."
"Is a handshake deal sufficient?"
"No. But it will have to do." He holds out his hand.
I shake. "Maybe this is what we'll do while we're looking for conquests. See who can have more fun."
"A wing-woman war?" he asks.
"Exactly," I say. "We keep an eye out for prospective partners while showing off our amazing, fun personalities."
"And how do we do that?"
"The way you do everything," I say.
He raises a brow.
"With rules and structure."
His lips curl into a knowing smile. "And what are those?"
"You know what Zack is going to do tonight?"
"How much time do you have?" he asks.
"One thing," I say. "He'll play truth or dare. So why don't we start now. Truth or dare. Only fun people always pick dare."
His eyes meet mine. "Why not call it dare or dare?"
"The option is important." I hold his gaze. I drop my voice to the most carefree tone I can muster. And I start. "Truth or dare?"