‘What about when.. . what about—you’ll know this one—when you’ve been out for a few drinks, staring at each other over some pub table. You know, when the conversation has strayed into dirty talk and all the things you want to do to each other when you get back home. The cab drops you off, and you’re so turned, you can’t get the key in the lock, and he’s so hard behind you. He’s nibbling your neck, his hands around you already trying to loosen you out of your clothes. Then the door opens, and you fall inside, and you end up fucking on the hallway floor fully clothed.’
‘That sounds... ’ I swallow deeply. ‘Like something out of an erotic book.’
‘It’s that heady period at the beginning when you can’t get enough of each other, and you’re constantly trying to get naked. Fingers and lips, teeth and tongues because touch is just not enough. The need all encompassing.’
‘That also sounds like something out of a piece of erotic literature.’
‘What about fumbles in the great outdoors?’
‘What, me?’ I ask after a beat.
‘Who else could I be talking to?’
What I don’t answer is that I was hoping he was about to tell me another sexy story, one to make my heart beat faster and my underwear a little damper. To think, there are actually men like Greg in the world. And to think I’m having my day in the sun—or snow, rather—with him.
How will I ever go back after this?
And then I realise he’s waiting for my answer.
‘Well, I can’t speak for the rest of the eight and a half million people in London, but I’ve never had a boyfriend do me in the kitchen, the shower, or full clothed in the hallway. As for après sexy times, isn’t that for youngsters who don’t have anywhere to go?’
‘You haven’t lived until you’ve felt the breeze on your arse cheeks and the long grass tickling your bits.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I reply, straining not to laugh even as my insides pulse with desire. I wantthat.All of it. For someone to want me so badly they truly can’t think of anything else.
‘Seriously, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Obviously not in this weather,’ he adds, oblivious to how I really feel as his gaze glides to the window. It’s still snowing, a blanket of white cutting us off from the rest of the world.
‘This year, I’ve had sex less times than I have fingers.’ I don’t quite know why I’m telling him this. But something about him just makes me want to confess. Like how I told him I wanted to have sex in front of the fire.
‘That’s not so bad. Quantity over quality and all that,’ he answers, sending me a quizzical look.
‘Sadly, not the case. I should’ve also said that I’ve been in two relationships, both not lasting very long, but whatever.’ I wave my hand as though erasing the thoughts.Bad choices and time wasted. ‘I do try. But I don’t date just anyone, you know. Try to separate the wheat from the chaff before they even get a whiff of my bedroom at the six-week mark. Unfortunately, the chaff seems to be very good at disguising itself as quality, when, in fact, it’s usually rubbish.’
‘Six weeks?’
‘Yes, I give the relationship six weeks before I decide if it’s worth taking the extra step.’
‘You mean sex,’ he states.He doesn’t ask.‘If you’ll pardon the pun, do you not think that’s a little rigid? I’m pretty sure I’d be as stiff as a pole by the six-week mark.’ The latter he mumbles, but I hear it all the same.
‘I’m trying to do things differently. Trying to attract a different kind of man.’
‘But six weeks?’
‘Is there an echo in here? Yes, six weeks.’
‘No matter how well the dates go?’
‘It’s hard to say—’
‘I’ll bet!’
‘No, I mean, if I felt something, maybe a spark or a connection, some kind of sign that it might be worth it, then maybe we’d get to the bedroom earlier.’
‘And has that happened?’
‘No,’ I answer a little defensively, forcing my shoulders not to slump.
‘Except with me.’
