“Don’t worry about me,” she whispers between kisses. “This is enough for me, kissing you.”
She palms my cock through my pants, scrapes her nails over the denim, and my blood rushes, everything tightens, every hair on my body stands on end, I almost come. Damn if that isn’t the sexiest thing.
But then her words sink into my brain.
Kissing is enough? She doesn’t expect to get anything out of sex with me? She’s okay if I nut on her like she’s a blow-up doll or some shit?
Like I’m some kind of charity sex case because I’m not whole anymore.
My fly comes undone, and she reaches inside, and I can’t help it, I stiffen, I jerk away, I put distance between myself and the couch and her.
She stares at me, her eyes wide and startled. Her hair is disheveled, her dress open, showing off her gorgeous tits and thighs. The sight is almost enough to bring me to my knees. I take deep breaths and run my hands over my face, only to smell her on my slick fingers. I stifle a groan and drop my hands to my sides.
“Anna, I’m sorry. I just . . .” I shake my head. Honestly, I don’t know what to say.
She pulls the folds of her dress together and seems to shrink in upon herself. With her face turned away from me, she asks, “Is this it? Are we done?”
“Can we talk through this?”
She grimaces and opens her mouth like she wants to speak, but words don’t come. She takes a breath and tries again to speak, but, again, words don’t come.
I take a step toward her. She’s so clearly struggling, and I hate seeing that. I want to make things better. My fly is hanging open, and I zip and button everything before sitting in the armchair adjacent to the couch.
“Remember when I told you it’s been a while for me?” I ask softly. It doesn’t feel good sharing about myself, but I can’t stand the idea of her misunderstanding the situation.
“Your surgery,” she says.
“Yeah.” I exhale tightly. “I often feel like . . . my body isn’t right anymore. Tonight, I was hoping to, I guess, prove that I’m still—I don’t know. If you’re not with me, if you’re not feeling it, I can’t—” I make a frustrated sound. It would help if I gave her specific details, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want her to look at me differently. I don’t want her to think I’m less. “Do you know what I’m saying? I need you to be just as into it as I am.”
She frowns at me for a long moment before she says, “Maybe?”
“Is there anything that I could have—”
She covers her face with her hands. “Can you not, please? People don’t talk about this stuff.”
“They do. I do.”
“They really don’t,” she says.
I tilt my head to the side as I try to figure this out. “How does a guy know how to touch you, then? I tried the regular stuff, and it didn’t seem to do it for you.”
She makes a miserable sound and shrinks deeper into herself.
A suspicion rises, and I ask, “Are you a virgin? Have you never . . .”
She drops her hands from her face and gives me an impatient look. “I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex many, many, many times.”
“Have you ever come before, like, had an orgasm? That’s, uh, when your body—”
She claps her hands to her face again. “I know what an orgasm is.”
“Have you had one?”
She draws her knees to her chest, and after a while I hear a muffled, “Yes.”
“Do they happen on accident? Or . . . can you make them happen?” I feel like I’m playing a guessing game, but I keep going.
“They do happen on accident sometimes, during sex, a few times when I was sleeping,” she confesses, and I arch my eyebrows. From my perspective, that’s a clear sign that a girl isn’t getting the proper loving. “But I also”—she clears her throat—“by myself, I can—” She drops her fingers to her mouth, and her face is red, her expression painfully embarrassed.