I turn on my heel and head to the other side of the room, taking a seat on the couch. I sit quietly, fidgeting softly as Graham pours two glasses of wine and carries them over to the couch, sitting beside me.
I offer him a smile that I’m worried comes off more like a grimace, and I take a glass.
“You know …” Graham says softly, his eyebrow drawing together. “We don’t have to do this. You can change your mind.”
My eyes flit to his. “I’m not changing my mind,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “Unless you don’t want to anymore, in which case—”
“I still want to.”
I swallow. “Okay. So we’re doing this.” My voice sounds tight, afraid. Fuck, how does everyone else manage to pull off sexy? To maneuver through the world smoothly and confidently.
Graham takes a sip of wine, then opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “So, uh … if you don’t mind my asking …” He glances at me. He’s sitting about a foot away. Close enough to touch, although we aren’t. Yet. “Why … haven’t you? Until now?”
The question doesn’t necessarily surprise me. I’ve been asked it before. Although it sends a tight knot coiling through my chest, spreading through my limbs and settling deep in my belly. It’s taken me years to finally decipher what exactly that feeling is, but I know it now.
Shame.
Deep and engrained into every facet of my being.
It’s strange. Harrison and I didn’t grow up especially religious. Sure, we went to church on Sundays, and while purity culture floated in the air around us, it’s not like my parents drove it home. I think it was a combination of trying to do the right thing and honestly just not caring. I wasn’t interested in sex in high school. I just didn’t get it. It seemed scary and gross. And while I’d outgrown the idea of saving myself by the time I got to college, I just never truly felt ready.
And suddenly, there I was in my twenties, looking around and realizing I’d missed the bus. Everyone had already done this big, important thing, and by the time I was even remotelyinterested in it … it was embarrassing to admit I had no experience.
“I guess I just never got around to it,” I answer. It’s true, albeit a little condensed.
Graham cocks his head, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. “I mean, it certainly can’t be from a lack of interest.”
“Interest …?” I start.
“From men,” he clarifies.
“Oh.” I mean, yeah, I know when a guy finds me attractive. But I just never let it get to the point of sex. I’ve never even had a real boyfriend. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
Graham snorts, and I’m a bit taken aback before he adds, “It’s definitelynotfrom a lack of interest from men.”
Now it’s my turn to cock my head at him. “Why do you say that?”
Graham’s expression turns incredulous, then surprised, and then, shockingly … timid? Well, as timid as Graham Whitaker can be. “Look at yourself, Delilah.” He gestures vaguely in my direction. “No man in his right mind would turn you down.”
I smirk at that, unable to help myself. “You did, at first.”
“Yeah, and that took a stupid amount of self-control. And look how easily you changed my mind.”
That gets a laugh out of me, and for the first time since Graham stepped in here, I feel vaguely normal. Not out of my mind with nerves, not overthinking every little thing. My laughter fades, and we fall into a comfortable silence for a few heartbeats.
Then, Graham says, “So … your book.”
I crinkle my nose, an odd mixture of amusement and embarrassment running through me. “Yeah?”
He grins, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a sex book?”
I laugh again. “There’s no such thing as asex book,” I say. “It’s a romance with sex in it.”
“So what kind of sex is gonna be in your book?”
I widen my eyes. “There’s differentkinds?”
It’s Graham’s turn to laugh, but he stifles it quickly, clearing his throat. “I mean, yeah, but also no. Sex is sex …” He shrugs.
