Fight From The Heart (Heart Collection #4) - L.B. Dunbar Page 0,32

my chest over my heart.

“I am not giving you my sexual history.” She snorts.

“Oh, please give me your history . . . the sexual parts, all the sex and parts.” My eyes lower, roaming over her lush body. I don’t want her history. I want to make the present—the here and now—a sexual memory.

Easy, man.

Her eyes narrow, and I tip a brow waiting.

“I’m the relationship type. I tend to date people for long periods of time, but after my last breakup, there were a few dalliances.”

“Dalliances.” I laugh. “What is this, a historical romance instead of your sexual past?”

“Alright. I’ve had sex with a handful of men and done a handful of other things with more than those men.”

My mouth falls open. “You hussy,” I joke, although her mention of long-term relationships suggests loyalty. Sticking with me for over two years proves her commitment qualities, even if we aren’t a couple dating one another.

“I wasn’t, and then I was, I guess.”

I don’t believe it. Not one bit. “But you’re so . . .”

“So what?” she snaps, crossing her arms.

So beautiful. So perfect. So standoffish. She has her boundaries, and I can’t imagine men crossing them. Then again, any man who does would be lucky and apparently several have with her.

“You’re so you,” I offer weakly, and she turns her face away from me, hurt by the lack of explanation.

“Well, apparently that wasn’t good enough.”

“Lilac,” I groan, hating when she puts herself down, and decide to offer her more about me. “I had the wild years throughout college and into my twenties. Then I met Mandi and decided it was better to have one kind of crazy in my life than a multitude of crazies.”

“Because it’s always the woman who is a little off balance?” Pam snarks, and I arch a brow. “Okay, maybe in your choice of woman, the shoe fits.”

“You know, clichés are unbecoming,” I remind her. “But I can’t seem to do normal.” There’s a strange comfort in the fight with someone like Mandi. The volatile personality. The hate sex. Maybe it’s because fighting is what I grew up with. Fighting was my perspective of love.

“I bet you could.”

“I don’t even know what normal means.” I huff.

“Dates. Holding hands. Kissing. That’s the normal progression.” Pam and I certainly didn’t follow that course with what I did the other night, but I also haven’t really been on dates, even with Mandi. We’d be mad at one another, and then see each other at a party, a club, or somewhere mutual. Arguments ensued and sex followed in a bathroom, a hallway, or someone else’s bed.

“Okay, so let’s pretend this is a date. What happens first?” I ask, lifting a knee and leaning an arm along the back of the couch. My fingers twitch to touch her. The tips of her hair. The edge of her shoulder. The lower curve of her lip.

She looks at me skeptically but then decides to play along. “Surely, you’ve been on a date before. What would you do first?”

“Dinner,” I say. “Although, does any of it matter? It’s all a precursor to sex, the ultimate goal.”

“Really? Sex is the only goal of a date?”

“You tell me.”

“No, no, it’s not,” she scolds. “Dating is the discovery of another person, seeing how someone else might fit with your parts.”

“Sex is about fitting parts together, too.” I chuckle.

She huffs again, looking away from me. She can’t disagree with me, but I want to know her thoughts. “What are you thinking?”

She shakes her head, ignoring the question.

“Why aren’t you married?” I blurt out next, with no filter or feeling to what I’m asking. Her answer is a shrug, and I’m sensing there’s more to the tip of her shoulder.

“Come on. Tell me,” I tease, pushing her walls while my heart races at her potential answer. “Your parts never fit with someone else?”

“I was engaged once.”

Fucking shit. I instantly see red.

“I thought we were in love and going to spend the rest of our lives together. It turns out, he was fucking my best friend, who happened to be my maid of honor, and they got married instead.”

Motherfucker. “Lilac,” I say softly, but her eyes remain focused on the crackling fire.

“I was twenty-five, and in a small town, word gets around when you get jilted. Thankfully, it was before we hit the altar, but it still stung, and it was still far enough along in the planning that I had a church to call, a reception to cancel, and gifts