Page 19 of Puck
I stared back at him for a moment, trying to fill in the gap. And then the penny dropped. “Am I . . . what? A virgin? God, no. Jesus, Puck.”
He blew out a breath of relief. “Thank fuck. Virgins are a lot of work.”
“And you know this from experience, do you?”
He shrugged. “Once, which was enough.”
“I’m not sure what to think about that. It seems to be a pattern with you.”
“I am who I am. I’ve been around, yeah. But I’m always up front about the way things are, and I’m not going to apologize for being who I am, or the way I am.”
“So a virgin agreed to a one-night stand with you?”
“Something like that.”
“Explain.”
He eyed me. “Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“About me sleeping with a virgin?”
“Yes.”
He bobbed his head side to side. “I don’t really like to talk about the women I’ve been with, especially to other women.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “It never goes well, I’ve learned.”
“I’m just curious. It’s not going to change my opinion of you.”
He laughed, but it was somewhat mirthless. “Something tells me that your opinion of me isn’t very high anyway.”
“Not true.”
“Tell me why you want to know.”
I thought for a moment. “I’m genuinely curious. You’re an interesting person. And I remember being a virgin. For most girls, it’s a pretty big deal, and I don’t see how a girl would be willing to give that to a random stranger in a one-night stand, especially going in knowing exactly what it was. So . . . I’m curious.”
Puck sighed. “Fine, I’ll tell you. But you have to share something of an equally personal and revealing nature.”
“Personal and revealing?” I asked.
He nodded. “I’d tell you anything you want to know about nearly anyone else I’ve been with.” He held up a hand and ticked off his fingers as he listed. “There was Miss Hewitt, my first, when I was thirteen. Substitute gym teacher, stone-cold fox, and yeah, she got fired for it. Molly Clancy, my first girlfriend, fourteen. Or maybe it’s the one-night stands you’re interested in . . . Amy, last month. Met her at a bar, went to her place, left the next morning having gotten zero minutes of sleep. Clara, a few nights before Amy, same story. Hannah and Georgia, roommates. Yes, at the same time. I left them passed out in Hannah’s bed. Passed out, I emphasize, from what you might term a surplus of orgasms. Sherry, Eileen, Tory, Kendra . . . same story. Those girls were all different nights, by the way. Want to know specifics about them?”
“None of that is personal or revealing.”
He shrugged. “Not particularly. I sleep around. I pick up barflies. I’m not a pickup artist, I don’t have a line I use or some funny little gimmick.”
“How do you get them to go to bed with you then?”
“I buy them a drink. Engage them in conversation, and I listen to them.” He winked at me. “And then I promise them three orgasms to every one of mine.”
“And that works?”
He nodded. “Oh yeah. Most women are undersexed, I think. Underpleasured. Don’t know the meaning of a truly good time in bed with a man who knows what he’s doing. I may not look like Channing Tatum or Brad Pitt, but I like to think I’ve got a certain . . . aura about me, know what I mean? Promise a woman she’ll come more times in one night than she ever has, she’ll go with you out of curiosity, if nothing else.”
“And you think that’s how you’ll get me naked, huh?”
He grinned. “I’m hoping.”