Ashton had never known. Never questioned it.
Spencer saw through me in an instant.
And something tells me, if I try to hide the truth now, I’ll be thrown out in the snow faster than it had taken him to figure it out.
So I tell him, “Yes.”
His nostrils flare. He shuts his eyes. Stays silent, despite that twitching vein. When he opens them again, he looks straight into my gaze and asks, “Why?”
Why? Instead of kicking me out, of ranting and cursing, he wants to know why?
I hardly know what to say.
Confess that despite four years together, Ashton had only ever managed to give me two orgasms?
The first, a total fluke. Brought on by a glass of champagne at my sister Aileen’s wedding, which Ashton and I had snatched from the caterer. Titillated by our own sneakiness, the general atmospheric romance of the wedding, and my first ever glass of alcohol on a nearly empty stomach after a whole day of bridesmaid duties, it had taken me by complete and utterly thrilling surprise.
The second, at my request that Ashton give me a repeat of the first. That one hadn’t been as easy, or come as swiftly. Without the relaxing effects of bubbly, it’d been difficult to get out of my own head. To let my body be swayed under Ashton’s touch. He’d been enthusiastic at first, depleting optimism in the middle, entirely frustrated by the end—so much so, that I think I came merely out of determination for it to just be over with and for him to stop being mad.
I quickly learned to stop asking for it. Lied that I preferred the closeness of penetrative sex over the teasing heights of foreplay. And when he resented not being able to make me writhe in pleasure through the sheer willpower of his jackhammering alone, well… I’d started pretending that it did.
I have no problem reaching it on my own. All the equipment works. The problem had been with the operator. One who hadn’t wanted to learn all the bells and whistles.
So the fact that here’s someone new, someone willing to learn. To get involved and so—so hands-on. Someone who knows the right pressure. The proper touch. The exact way to work my body. Like he’d been doing it for years. Meanwhile, I’m still adjusting to all of this. That he’s so huge. So intense. With his dark eyes and the way he kisses and the bulge under his sweatpants. It’s so exhilarating, yet so terrifyingly overwhelming, and I think yes, for sure, this will be different. Different from all the other times—
Then he’d made that noise. That growl of impatience. Suddenly, memories of the past four years flooded me. And thoughts creeped into my head. Thoughts like Spencer hated this. Like he was getting bored. Like he wanted to finish himself and be done with it and leave me wanting and aching just like Ashton had.
I panicked. Fraught with nerves and second guessing, I fell back into a bad habit. To make him feel good before he made me feel worse.
But how to explain all of that to Spencer?
I look away from his pressing stare. Shift my gaze around the room, taking it in. Try to find something to focus on that’s not him. It’s spartan. A football on the dresser. Dumbbells in a corner. Discarded clothes in the laundry hamper. No knickknacks. No family photos or color-coded assortment of pens neatly arranged on the desk. Very little to tell me more about him than I already know.
So I meet his eyes again. I start, “With Ash…”
Spencer slides off the bed. Hands on his hips. Directing my eyes back to that bulge. I swallow, realizing I’ll never get a moment to see under those sweatpants.
“You wanted this to get over him. Why the fuck are you thinking about him when I’m eating your fucking pussy?”
A pang strikes that very same area. He puts it so bluntly. And I’m still so tense with the need for release.
“You sounded—”
“How the fuck did I sound?”
Something bristles inside me at his tone. And I remember, this is Spencer. Someone I don’t care about. Someone I’ve thrown beer on. Someone who makes me mad because he is the exact opposite of everything I want.
I shouldn’t let him get under my skin. Shouldn’t let him make me feel like I’m not worth this.
So I steel my shoulders. “Like you didn’t like it.”
It sets him off. He lunges, gripping my hips and sliding me to him. I perch on the edge of the bed, having to open my legs because Spencer’s right there, unmoving between them. He yanks the blanket away, baring me to that blazing stare. When I protest and reach for it, he grabs my chin and forces me to look at him.
“Let’s get this straight, princess,” he says. “If you’re in my house, on my fucking bed—” He thumps a fist on the mattress. “Then you’re thinking about me. If you want the asswipe that left you, if you can’t fucking do this, get the fuck out. I don’t fuck around with girls who don’t want me.”
He relaxes his hold, fingers sliding along my cheek. I want to drift my eyes shut, to fall back into his touch, but when he rubs his thumb along my lip, I can’t look away. “But if you’re serious—If you want this, if you want to stay, then get it out of your head right fucking now that I’m not enjoying this.”
Leaning closer, his hand cups the back of my head, tangling in my hair. And he follows with, “That sound? That was me, consumed by your pussy. Thinking about all the ways I want to taste it tonight. About how many times I can make you come with my mouth alone. You see this?” His other hand grips the solid outline under his pants. “This is for you. This is because of you. I want you, princess. I want to fill that pussy
