She yawns. “You forgot to mention ridiculously good-looking.”
I smile. “I was getting to that.”
“Sure you were,” she says, stretching. My jumper rides up slightly, revealing the smooth, creamy skin of her thighs.
“You’re deflecting,” I say.
Her jaw tenses before she releases a heavy breath. “Fine. I suppose it’s only fair since you shared.” She places her near-empty glass on the side table, hugging both legs to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. “His name was Todd.”
I frown, becoming irrationally jealous of a total stranger. “What happened?”
“The usual. We fell madly in love as teenagers, dated through uni, moved in together, had the rest of our lives planned.” She pauses, sucking her lower lip in while she contemplates her next words. I don’t rush her; instead, I study the curve of her button nose, the perfect arch of her eyebrows, the full lines of her lips.
“I just couldn’t do it anymore,” she says finally, her voice quieter than usual.
“Couldn’t do what?” I ask, my tone soft.
“The sex.”
Not what I was expecting. “It wasn’t good?”
She shakes her head. “It was always the same. Monotonous. Like we were just going through the motions till it was over. We lost our spark. I never got excited to see him. I never felt the urge to tear off his clothes… when our friends started getting engaged and married, I realized I couldn’t do the boring marriage with the boring sex.” She shrugs. “It was never going to be my life.”
I get it. Sex plays a huge part in a romantic relationship. Sometimes, in life’s emptiest moments, passion is the only thing we have left to get us through.
“So, you left,” I finish for her.
She nods, her fingers tracing patterns on her knee. “So, I left.”
“And now?”
She looks at me, her gaze unwavering. “I don’t do relationships. I can’t endure years of boring sex again.”
“I don’t think being in a relationship means you’ll exclusively have boring sex,” I say, surprised by my own words. For some reason, the thought that this young, beautiful woman has closed herself off to love doesn’t sit well with me. “Some couples manage a happy relationship with great sex.”
“I don’t see you jumping at the opportunity to fall in love.”
“Fair point,” I concede, smirking. “No, I’m not jumping at the opportunity to fall in love.”
“But you fuck,” she says bluntly.
I meet her eyes. “Yes, Gemma. I fuck.”
The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Then we understand each other perfectly.”
I laugh, shaking my head. We lapse into a comfortable silence as I finish off my wine. Gemma stifles another yawn, trying to hide it behind her hand.
“Tired?” I ask.
“No,” she says too quickly, yawning again.
“Liar.”
She closes her eyes. “I’m just resting my eyes.”
“Of course,” I say, watching as she settles deeper into the sofa.
When her breathing deepens and her body relaxes, I stand. For a moment, I debate waking her, calling her a cab or an Uber, but I don’t know where she lives. And I can’t message Anna without giving us away. The Max Browne of mere weeks ago wouldn’t have hesitated. But something stops me as I take in the sight of her.
