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But…somehow it is. I want to know what she likes and doesn’t like too. I want to know that whoever she’s with is treating her well. I want to be sure he’s good enough for her. Ineveryway, and yes, goddammit, that includes the bedroom.
“I haven’t,” she says. “Not with another person. But this is the only way I can do anything tonight. I guess,” she adds. “This just seemed like a good place to start while it’s all on my mind.”
The buzzing noise has stopped. Thank God.
“A good place to start what, exactly?” Now I’m torturing myself. But how exactly should I end this conversation, anyway?
“Astrid agrees with you. That I’m missing out having not had sex. That I don’t know what I’m talking about when I say I don’t care about it or don’t want it. She thinks I should try it so that I know what I’m giving up. And she believes it will help me want to date. She also thinks that I need to figure out what I like and don’t like. She says if I find someone I like and am attracted to, but the sex is only so-so, I can coach him and it can get better. But I need to know what I like first. Obviously.”
Astrid’s great. I like her a lot. She’s bold and feisty, and clearly, very self-aware and sex positive.
I also kind of hate her right now.
“So you and Astrid decided you need to get your vibrators out tonight?”
“We didn’t specifically talk about vibrators. Though this is the one she gave me for my birthday.”
I mutter another curse. I am so curious about what this vibrator looks like and what kind it is. Is it one she inserts, or is it just a clitoral stimulator…I shut all of that down.
“But she talked you into having sex? Before you marry Torin?”
“Yes. She said I’m missing out and that it’s not fair for me to get married without knowing what I’m missing. And again, that I could coach any guy?—”
“Yes, I caught that part,” I cut her off.
We’re both quiet for several seconds.
I don’t know if I can do this.
I don’t know if I can send her home with Christian Waite, the very good-looking, very charming, clearly-enamored-with-Linnea senator she’ll be having dinner with tomorrow night.
But what are my options here?
“I was thinking,” Linnea says after a moment. “You would be perfect.”
I freeze. Literally every muscle in my body tenses. “For?” I ask. Stupidly.
“To teach me about sex. I’m sure you’ve had a lot of it.”
“Hey,” I say, offended for some reason.
“Well, you have, right? You’ve had sex. You liked it. You’re good at it?”
I blow out a breath. “I have had sex. I do like it, and yes, I think I must be pretty good at it.” All understatements, of course. I’ve had a lot of sex. I fuckinglovesex. And I’mdamnedgood at it.
But sure, I had to learn to be damned good. No one starts out phenomenal. It takes practice, and paying attention, and being very committed to the craft.
“So you’d be perfect,” Linnea goes on. “I trust you. You already know all kinds of intimate details about me. Things that could be embarrassing, but they’re not because you never judge me, you never make me feel stupid. So if I was clumsy, or not good at it, you’d be patient. You would take care of me. Like you do with everything else.”
All of those muscles that were stiff from shock now tense up out of pure lust.
Would I take care of her? Fucking hell. I would take care of her over and over again.
Linnea Olsen needs to learn about sex? What she likes in bed? How her body can be the source of incredible pleasure? Damn right, I’d be the perfect instructor.
She definitely can trust me. And I absolutely would not judge a single thing. In fact, her inexperience is a fucking turn-on like nothing I’ve experienced before.
This is also the worst idea anybody’s ever had.