Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95256 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“Fine.” I opened a bag of barbecue chips and started munching on them. “You know, these chips pair surprisingly well with this wine.”
He leaned over and stuck his hand in the bag, shoving a chip in his mouth. “You’re right, they do. We should have an event where we pair gas station snacks with good wine. Like, you save on the food, splurge on the wine.”
“Yes!” My glass was empty, so I got up and went over to get the bottle from the counter. After pouring myself a generous refill, I brought it over to the bed and refilled Gianni’s glass too. Setting the bottle and my glass on the table, I reached beneath the sweater and untucked my blouse from my pants. “Hey, close your eyes.”
He looked up from my phone. “Why?”
“Because I want to take my dress pants off. They’re not comfortable.”
“You said I couldn’t take off my pants.” He pointed at me. “That’s a double standard.”
“Fine, then take yours off, but turn around and face the other way.”
“Works for me.” Gianni got off the bed and dug a pair of jeans from his duffel bag. After tossing them on the bed, he faced the bathroom and unbuckled his belt. Then unbuttoned his pants. Then lowered the zipper. Then peeked over his shoulder at me. “Are you going to stand there and watch?”
Embarrassed, I spun around and faced the kitchenette. Hurrying, I removed my dress pants, tossed them aside, and grabbed the red and black plaid blanket off the foot of the bed. Wrapping it around my lower body, I snuck a glance at Gianni as he tugged up his jeans. The hem of his dress shirt covered his butt, so I couldn’t even see what kind of underwear he had on—or if he wore underwear at all. What if he was a commando kind of guy?
I quickly faced the kitchenette again and waited, my heart beating fast. After I heard his zipper, I asked, “Are you decent?”
“Yeah. Can I turn around now?”
“Yes.”
We faced each other at the same time, and when he saw me wrapped in the blanket, he started to laugh. “Ellie, that sweater covers way more than a bathing suit, which I have seen you in a hundred times.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I got back on the bed and pretzeled my legs again, keeping the blanket tucked around my lap. “Okay. Ask me your question now.”
He looked at the phone. “What did you think of sex the first time?”
I drank some more wine. “I thought it was overrated.”
“You did?” He laughed. “I thought the opposite. I was like, ‘how the hell does anyone ever get anything done?’ It was all I could think about.”
“I think I was expecting it to be like the movies. Or like in a romance novel. You know, a lot of bursting and exploding,” I said dramatically. “Cries of passion. Moans of ecstasy. Instead it was more like . . . grunt, grunt, snap, crackle, pop. I wondered what all the fuss was about.”
Gianni snorted with laughter. “I sincerely hope things have gotten better since then.”
“They have.” I grabbed my wineglass and brought it to my lips. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh, no. You can’t just put that out there and walk away. What did you mean?”
I exhaled and took another sip. “I just feel like the guys I’ve been with are always in a rush. They don’t listen or pay attention. I mean, they act like they want me to finish, and they ask me things like, ‘Are you close?’ But I never feel like that question is actually about me. And I always feel like I have to say yes, even when the answer is no. I feel pressured, I get nervous. And then I fake it.”
Gianni’s jaw dropped. “You fake your orgasms?”
“Not all the time,” I said quickly. “Just sometimes.”
“How often?”
“Maybe like half the time. Or . . . three quarters.”
“Damn.” He shook his head. “That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.” I drank again. “Why can’t guys just slow down and figure out what I like? It’s not that complicated.”
“What is it you like?”
“Is that the next question?” I pointed at the phone.
“No. I just want to know.” He leaned back and took a drink. “Tell me what you like.”
I swirled the wine in my glass. “I would like someone who doesn’t treat sex like it’s a race.”
“Do you tell them to slow down if they’re moving too fast?”
“I try to, but sometimes it’s awkward. I don’t want to seem like I’m too demanding.”
“Ellie, unless a guy is a total asshole, he wants you to finish. And it’s not in our nature to be patient when it comes to sex.”
“You said you’re patient,” I pointed out.
“I wasn’t always. I had to be taught.”
“Who taught you?”
“This woman I saw for a little while when I lived in New York. She was older—maybe like twenty-five—and I was nineteen, literally a fucking bull in a china shop. The first time we were together, she set me straight.” He drank again. “Taught me some very valuable lessons.”