Ha! But how would I know what I even want? I’ve had sex exactly twice.
I think back to both of my sexual encounters. The first time was the summer before I started uni. Jake was my first boyfriend and my first time. He thought it would be romantic to have sex on the beach at night, except it was cold and I got sand in all the wrong places. Then he started licking my face—no, that’s not accurate. He was slobbering on me like an excited puppy, which was his idea of foreplay—and asking me if it was hot. Before I could say no, Jake was onto the next question. Was he hot? Wasn’t licking my face hot? Didn’t I want his hot tongue to lick me? I was so grossed out, I was muted into silence, but he kept answering his own questions about his hotness and was too busy drooling on my eyebrows to even notice I wasn’t saying anything.
But even worse … the whole thing continued during sex. “Aren’t I hot?” “Isn’t this sexy?” “Don’t you think I’m hot?” “Isn’t this amazing?” I was already turned off but stayed the course. Virginity taken, tick. Oh, and afterward? Jake kept saying, “I was good, wasn’t I? So bloody good! You’re so lucky to have such great sex your first time!”
Um, sure. So great, I broke up with him the next day.
After recovering from that, I dated occasionally, but nothing serious. Nor had I met anyone I wanted to have sex with until George, a cute geography student I met when I was out with Isla one evening. He was funny and charming, and after a few dates, I thought perhaps it was time to give sex another try.
Bad decision on my part.
Cute George turned into something else in bed. As soon as our clothes were off, he flopped on me like a cod pulled from the sea and dumped on the deck of a fishing boat. He flopped all over me, his pale body making a slapping sound against mine. His mouth drew up into this O shape, and he let out long “oooooooooooooooooooooooooooohs” during his … erm … climax.
Which lasted about a minute.
Spent, he was left gasping for breath. Again, like a fish desperate for water.
While George lay beside me sweating profusely and still giving off “oooooh” sounds, I was left with one conviction.
Sex sucked. Truly and completely sucked.
Obviously, we didn’t see each other after that. I heard through mutual friends George told people I was cold in bed and didn’t do anything.
Well, one doesn’t exactly feel hot and sexy when a dying cod is flailing all over them, but you know, details.
After I told Isla about it, she assured me I merely had really crappy luck.
But back to the present. Because of my lack of experience, I have no idea what would please me in bed. None. I only know what doesn’t at this point.
Suddenly, Xander flashes through my mind. His hands oh-so-lightly touching my waist. His breath caressing my cheek. That rich, molten voice whispering my name.
My skin grows feverishly hot. My stomach tingles. And my pulse becomes rapid. All of these things that I never felt during sex with Jake and George, I felt in the mere presence of Xander. Then a thought hits me that makes every sensation I have go up fifty notches:
I have a feeling Xander Wales would be incredibly good in bed.
But then a mortifying thought follows that one.
Oh my God, what if, after a few dates, we do have sex? I have only had bad sex twice, and Xander has had …
Well, he’s had a lot of sex.
With women who know how to have sex.
I gasp. What if we have sex, and Xander thinks I’m a flailing cod?
Or a dead cod?
All of my sexy thoughts dissolve and reappear in the form of a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What if I become the worst sex Xander has ever had? I mean, he has had women who are experienced and probably do all sorts of interesting things I’ve never even heard of. What if he thinks my kisses are slobbering dog kisses? Or my face is weird when we are having sex? Maybe I don’t know enough sexual tricks to keep him interested. Oh, God, what if I put him to sleep with my sexual skills? What if I’m so bad, he has to think of other things—or even other