Page 47 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“Yeah, I’m super flexible,” she replied, then lifted her leg and tucked it behind her neck. “See.”
“Bloody hell! You are.” He pulled at the collar of his hoodie. “Have you tried anything besides sex toys?”
“You mean actual sex?” she answered, lowering her leg.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
She deflated into the seat. “I’ve had tons of sex over the last seventy-five days.”
His eyebrows rocketed to his hairline. “You’ve had tons of sex?”
She shot back up and exhaled an irritated breath. “You’re not one of those, are you?”
“One of what?”
“A judgmental hypocrite. A guy who believes it’s totally fine for a man to sow his wild oats and enjoy pleasure. But if a woman engages in the same behavior, you look down your smug nose at her.”
“My nose isn’t smug, and I’m all for women owning their sexuality,” he answered, gripping the steering wheel like he was ready to rip it clear off the console.
She looked him over. “Then why are you making that face?”
“I’m not making a face, plum,” he snarled.
There he was, calling her plum again.
“You are,” she corrected. “You look like you either want to punch someone in the nose or desperately need to get to a toilet to take care of a terrible case of raging diarrhea.”
“I do not bloody look like a man with raging diarrhea,” he grunted as a vein pulsed on his forehead.
She shrugged. “Now, you sound like one, too.”
“Plum, you might kill me,” he muttered. A slice of silence wove its way through the darkened vehicle before Raz cut through the quiet. “But none of the blokes you were with could—”
“Get me off?” she supplied. There was no reason to beat around the bush. Yes, Raz was a Brit, but this wasn’t Victorian England. “Nope, none of them could get the job done.”
The hint of that cocky boxer returned with a coy twist of his lips. “Maybe you’re picking the wrong guys.”
He was fishing—trying to figure her out.
She tucked an errant lock of her hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t work like that for me. It doesn’t matter who I sleep with.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, leaning in.
“There’s no right guy for me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not sleeping with ax murderers. But if I meet someone and we enjoy each other’s company, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with sleeping together. I love sex—or loved it before I lost my ability to have an orgasm. But you see, for me, sex is a release. I don’t want monogamy. Sex is sex. I’m not looking for anything more.”
“Ever?” Raz threw back, curiosity woven into the word. “You don’t want a boyfriend or a husband someday?”
She shifted in her seat. It wasn’t usually difficult to answer this question. She thought she’d made her peace with the answer. “No,” she rasped, grateful she was able to produce the syllable. The word seemed stuck—like it didn’t want to come out.
“You weren’t kidding tonight when you said you didn’t need a man to teach you anything,” he said, letting go of the steering wheel and resting his hands in his lap. “You’re a rare find, Libby Lamb.”
But she wasn’t. She was simply cautious—or broken. She wasn’t quite sure which one she actually was. She’d seen firsthand what one reckless man can do to a fragile heart. She had to play it safe, and that meant keeping her guard up.
“In my experience,” she began, “when it comes to the big stuff, the heavy stuff, the stuff that isn’t easy, most men are remarkably unreliable. When the chips are down, I have my friends and myself. I’ll never rely on a man.”
She left out a pertinent word.
Again.
