She’d come! The Big O. She’d climaxed with a man. A handsome, sexy, smart man, who was also bossy and domineering and oh yeah, don’t forget, a killer. He’d given her the best, biggest orgasm of her life. With his penis! And, oh God, with his tongue. A sound escaped her throat, half laughter and half sob.
He raised his head, his smile changing to a look of confusion. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head and gave him a weak smile. Then—damn it—a tear leaked from the side of her eye.
He pulled out of her and she instantly missed him, even though he stayed right at her side. “What is it? God, Jess, did I hurt you?”
“No, no, of course not. I’m fine.”
“You’re crying. Or trying not to.”
“No, I’m laughing. I think.” She laughed nervously to prove it, then swiped at her eye to erase any evidence otherwise.
He used his thumb to wipe away the wet streak on her jaw. “Okay, why are you laughing?”
Did she really have to explain? She looked at his kind expression and thought she probably did. Tears and laughter could not be the usual response to the extraordinary pleasure he’d just given her.
“It’s not you,” she began. “I mean, it is, but in a good way.” Good Lord, she sounded like an idiot. She took a deep breath and started over, this time trying to engage a few more brain cells. “I’m relieved, that’s all. I didn’t think I could…I mean I hoped I could, but…I wasn’t expecting it to be so good. That’s all.” She smiled gamely.
He smoothed hair off her forehead with the softest, most patient smile she’d ever seen. “Why not?”
How had she ever thought this man was dangerous? His scruffy beard, several days overdue for a shave, looked rough, and yes, he’d killed a man. A man who’d come to kill her. And broken another man’s arm in a knife fight. But that was because he had a dangerous job and was competent, alert for danger, and good at what he did. He was confident and smart and wise enough to use other people for the things he didn’t know. He was a leader, engendering trust. It was a combination that made him sexy as hell even without the to-die-for body.
And after he’d made fantastic love to her, she had turned into a soggy, emotional mess. She owed him honesty.
“I thought I was frigid,” she admitted.
“What? Who told you that?”
“My therapist did. He wasn’t wrong. But for a long time I couldn’t, you know, do what I did.”
“What, have sex?”
“Have an orgasm.”
He tried not to react, she could tell, but looked slightly appalled. “Ever?”
“Well, not with a man.”
Confusion creased lines across his forehead. “With a woman?”
“No.” She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “You know, just…alone.”
She was afraid he’d scoff or even laugh, but he seemed to give it serious thought. “Honey, I don’t know who you’ve been with or what was wrong with them, but nothing’s wrong with you. You’re far from frigid. I mean, far.”
Because of you, she thought, but loved him for saying it.
“Is this the medical issue you didn’t want to talk about?” When she nodded, he frowned. “I don’t get it, how is Wally to blame?”
She turned on her side to face him. It wasn’t the sort of pillow talk she would have hoped for, but it had to be said. “My therapist said it was because I could never completely trust men after being abandoned by the father I’d adored, especially since it was right at the age of puberty.”
“That’s ridiculous. Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I was pretty upset and depressed. Of course, I was only twelve so it was still years before I had sex.” She took a deep breath, and gave him the whole story. “My mother had me seeing therapists all that time because she said I’d been traumatized. Looking back, I guess she invented some of that trauma because I never got the story you did about what my father was really doing. She didn’t tell me. And she was always in therapy for her obsessions and fears, so I guess it was natural that she thought I should be, too. And I just accepted that there was something wrong with me. When my first serious boyfriend didn’t, uh, satisfy me, my therapist said I needed a more passive man. He advised me to avoid aggressive, domineering men and be with guys who would never do anything threatening and never demand too much. They were nice guys, Tyler, but maybe too nice.” She shrugged. “I guess the best word for them is milquetoast.”
His forehead creased with concern. “Is that how you see me—threatening? Domineering?”