He sinks down to his haunches next to me, placing his hand over mine, pausing my movements mid-zippering of my bag. “Jo, please look at me.”
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to see his apology. Or worse, pity. So, I don’t. I shoo his fingers aside and finish putting everything away. Only once I’m done does he admit, “I haven’t touched a woman in weeks.”
That knocks me back. Literally. I fall to my butt. “What?”
“Not since you were in the hospital.” He frowns, vacantly staring at the wall for a moment, as if doing mental calculations. “Longer than that, not since that fiasco with the woman coming to practice.”
“That was over two months ago.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I’m never brave, and I’m also not one to spit out snide comments, so I don’t know where it comes from when I ask, “That hard for you?”
Nico’s brow rises, though his features quickly clear of their reaction. It wasn’t hurt, but it certainly wasn’t humor either, yet he keeps his voice carefully neutral when he answers. “Despitewhat some people might say, I’m not some kind of addict. I just really enjoy sex.”
“What’s that like?” I grumble, yanking the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands before dragging them down my overheated cheeks.
I’ve only ever been jealous—truly envious—one time in my life, when I found my sister and Waylon together, so I’m not sure if that’s what I’m feeling. Although I don’t know why I’d be jealous of Nico. Possibly because of his life, of all of his experiences. To be so confident he knows he can snap his fingers at any person willing to be his partner. He doesn’t even have to try because they gladly follow him to his bed.
He sits on his butt across from me. “Did you ask me what that’s like?”
“No.”
He frowns. “You did. Did you mean sex? What’s sex like?”
“No.” I huff, shifting to scoot back, but he extends his long legs out on either side of me, trapping me once again. This time, Gus gets in on the action, and he slinks over to nestle against me.
“Josephine, are you…?” Nico stares at me, his eyes darting back and forth between mine, obviously reading between the lines. “Are you a virgin?”
I slant my gaze toward the window, away from his visceral curiosity. “That’s a personal question.”
“We’re engaged. We can’t get any more personal than that.”
“We’re not really engaged. You need to stop using that against me.”
He tugs on my arm, pulling my left hand to him so he can draw up the sleeve of my sweatshirt, revealing his ring—myring. “I’m not using anything against you. I’m trying to get to know you.” He toys with the thin gold band. “You don’t need to be embarrassed if you are. It’s no big deal.”
I snort. “Says the biggest player on the planet.”
“So you are?”
My silence is answer enough, and he crowds in even closer,folding his legs so our knees touch, his shorts practically underwear with how high they ride up his muscular thighs, displaying nearlyeverythingbetween them.
“What’s the story there?” he asks, finally releasing my hand, and I shove it into the pocket of my hoodie.
“There isn’t a story,” I lie. “Just never happened.”
“Remind me how old you are.”
“Twenty-five.”
He lifts a shoulder. “That’s cool. You waiting for the right person?”
I was an outcast at home. I had no opportunities to even flirt with a boy, and when I moved here, I found it difficult to block out all the voices in the back of my head. I’ve been on dates with guys. I’ve kissed them, but that’s about as far as it’s gone.
“Not necessarily,” I finally reply, and Nico leans in, studying me closely, like he usually does in that way that makes me think I am special. But I can safely assume this is how he makes every woman feel. Like they’re special. Like they’re the only one.
