Page 23 of Resist

She studies me like I’m an anomaly, and her face darkens. “When I realize someone’s struggling to get me over the line it’s easier to call it off and finish it myself. I get so inmy head about it and feel guilty that I’m taking too long, it just makes it harder to come.”

“You get impatient with yourself.”

She nods. “And embarrassed. Which I hate, because it’s so unlike me.”

I top up both our glasses with the open champagne bottle from the ice bucket on the table between us.

“I like efficiency. And when someone’s struggling to make me orgasm, it doesn’t feel efficient. I get weary, impatient, frustrated, and figure it’s easier to go home and use the rabbit in my bedside table to give me what I need, then I can roll over and fall asleep.”

Disappointment must show on my face because she offers a small smile.

“Don’t feel sorry for me, Sterling.” She boops my nose. I guess it’s her thing. “I am a successful woman. I have good friends. I’m happy. And I get the occasional orgasm from a battery operated boyfriend who doesn’t treat me like shit or get frustrated or emasculated that he can’t make me come. What more could a girl want?”

It’s my turn to study her face for a long while. So long that she looks away like she can’t hold up the weight of my scrutiny.

“Connection? Companionship? An orgasm so hard it steals your breath and leaves your legs weak?”

She shakes her head like those things may be for someone else, not her, and now I reallydofeel sorry for her.

“I’m sorry you’ve never met someone who put in the time and effort it took to give you what you need.” It’s not my responsibility to apologize to her for my entire gender, but I know what it’s like to put the time and effort in with someone and not have it appreciated or reciprocated.

She shrugs. “I sometimes think it may have been different if Mom didn’t die when she did. Those formative teenageyears, learning what it means to be feminine, soft, demure, all the things men seem to want from a woman...”

She sighs. “I was raised by a single dad. A ball-buster. He couldn’t teach me to put on make-up, he never bought me dolls or an easy bake oven. The only thing he gave me was everything he knew how to be. He made me a ball-buster, just like him. And as such most men find me intimidating.”

That look appears in her eye again, like she’s beholding a marvel, or something to be wary of because it doesn’t make sense.

“Why can’t you be both?” I finish my drink.

“Both, what?”

“Both everything. Why can’t you be a ball-busterandfeminine? Toughandsoft. Strongandweak. Confidentandinsecure. Why limit yourself?”

She gives me a hollow, tinkling laugh as she holds her hand up. “We’ve gotten into a much too philosophical conversation for post coital exhaustion.” She looks at the delicate Cartier watch adorning her wrist. “I should go home.”

She doesn’t move, and I’m not sure whether she wants me to agree with her, or talk her out of it.

“Whatever you need.” It’s a safe statement. Middle of the road. I’m not going to try to manipulate her or make her stay if she’s ready to go home, but I’m also in no rush for either of us to leave.

She nods, drains her glass, and pulls her impossibly high heels back onto her feet.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

She looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “Shouldn’t I be offering you that courtesy?”

I shrug. “I’m no stranger to heavy sessions. I’d rather we didn’t punctuate tonight by you falling asleep at the wheel, or getting into an accident.”

Her piercing stare leaves me vulnerable, like she’ssearching in my eyes for something and won’t stop until she finds it. Why is she so guarded? So suspicious of a simple kindness? What happened to her that left her needing to keep her walls so high?

I don’t voice any of my questions. Obviously. If she clammed up after the mere mention of something so personal, I’m not going to drive those walls any higher by pressing. But I can’t say I’m not curious.

“I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”

I’m not convinced, but I’m also not sure where the line is between pushing and coming on too strongly. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to corner her in a car with me so I bite my tongue.

As we’re leaving the staff room, Phoenix appears, relief on Cecelia’s face clear when she spies her friend. “There you are! I’ve been messaging.”

Cecelia’s nostrils flare. “Rule number six.”

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