The skin next to his deep green eyes crinkles as he smiles at his own joke.
“Get your ass on the couch,” I command.
“You’re being very demanding today. Who knew you liked to give directions so much?” There’s a salacious undertone to his voice, and the double-entendre is clear. My stomach slants.
The comment also sparks a question.WouldI enjoy giving directions inthatway?
I’ve never really explored what I like in bed. My sexual experiences have always been … perfunctory, is the word that comes to mind.
My ex wasn’t one for putting in effort. He liked to skip foreplay, and then never lasted long. With him, I never felt into it to the point that I wanted to try out different things. In ourrelationship, sex was just … there. An unremarkable, utilitarian feature of our being together.
Pretty much every aspect of our relationship was like that, if I’m being honest.
Which is why I wasn’t broken up when he cheated on me. In fact, finding him with another girl felt like a weight sliding off my shoulders. I suddenly felt free to explore possibilities I wouldn’t have considered if I stayed tied to a relationship that was running on little more than inertia.
But that’s another topic to dwell on another time.
With the couple casual hook-ups I’ve had, it was the same thing. Their fleeting, impersonal nature didn’t encourage me to try new things, and the guys I was with didn’t seem interested in anything other than getting themselves off and leaving it at that.
Thanks to the chapter I’m struggling with, sex has been on my mind more than ever lately. Along with it has come the feeling that I’ve been missing out, that I haven’t centered my own pleasure and satisfaction like I should have.
Being around Jamie makes me feel so comfortable, so inexplicably at ease, that with him, maybe …
Jamie reaches the couch before I do. I roll my eyes when he sits on the far edge of it, basically cramming himself against an armrest.
It’s just like him to go from implying that I like bossing people around in the bedroom, to being so shy that he gives me all the room in the world to sit far away from him.
Instead of taking the further cushion, I take the middle one, right next to Jamie.
I take a sip of the minestrone soup. It’ssogood. Most people go to Pasqually’s for the overstuffed sandwiches and greasy pizza, but they’re sleeping on the soup.
I let out a pleased sound as I slurp another spoonful. When the throaty, satisfied noise I make hits my ear, I slide my gazeto Jamie beside me. His eyes are wide and his jaw muscles are flexing.
Woops.
I wonder if he’s hard right now.
The question barges into my mind, and just a hint of slickness between my legs accompanies it.
“Conquered that writer’s block yet?” Jamie asks.
“I wish,” I sigh.
“Anything I can do to help? Want to bounce some ideas off me?”
A knot of pressure pulls at the base of my spine. If only he knew the ideas that have floated through my head about how he might help. Those thoughtshaveinvolved bouncing—butonhim, rather than ideasoffhim.
“Thanks, but I think I just need to mull it over in my head some more,” I deflect.
He shrugs. “Fair enough. You’re the writer. Not like I know anything about the creative process.”
There’s a beat of silence after we both finish our food.
“Am I the only one who’s still hungry?” I ask.
Jamie laughs. “Are you kidding? I’m starving.”
I push up from the couch. “Let me see what I have in my cabinets. There’s not much, but maybe enough to whip something up.”
