The taste of him is still on my tongue. The feeling of his hands in my hair, the way he’d looked at me when I had my mouth on him—perfect. All of it was perfect.
Until he said “your turn” and my brain immediately supplied every guy who’d tried before.
Patient at first, then confused, then frustrated when nothing worked.
“Are you close?”
“Just relax.”
“What do you need me to do?”
That last one is always the worst. The genuine concern that shifts into impatience when they realize I’m more work than they signed up for.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel at a red light.
Roman hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been careful, attentive. He would have tried.
That’s what scares me.
Because I’ve had guys try. It doesn’t work. And then sex becomesthis thing they’re determined to fix instead of something they want to do.
My phone buzzes.
Roman
Are you okay?
Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.
I should answer. Should explain. But I can’t figure out what to say that doesn’t sound like I’m broken.
Roman
Marnie. Please.
I’m home
“You look like shit,”Jake announces the next day when we have a quiet moment between sessions.
“Thanks. You look great too.”
“I’m serious. Did you sleep at all? Also, Cap’s been texting me asking if you’re okay.”
My stomach drops. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’re fine and he should ask you himself like an adult.” Jake gives me a look. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Marnie. He didn’t come to morning skate today. Roman never skips morning skate. Ever. Then you show up looking like you cried all night?—”
“I didn’t cry all night?—”
“—and won’t make eye contact with anyone. So clearly something happened.”
I grab the tablet to review the week’s schedule and glare at it while it loads tooslowly. “I’m fine.”
He laughs. “Yeah, and I’m straight.”
