Page 13 of Casanova LLC

“So porn categories.”

He lifted both brows.

I lifted a hand. “Don’t get the wrong impression. I watched some last night. For the first time. For a very short time.”

“And?”

“And I’m not a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“What were you looking for?”

I sighed. “I’m not sure they make what I was looking for.”

He watched me. “Which was?”

“Something I could believe,” I scoffed. “Something intimate. But then it wouldn’t be porn, would it?”

“I’m not sure intimacy is something you can observe. I think you have to experience it to know it.”

It was then that it occurred to me he might actually be very good at his job.

He was looking so deeply into me that I felt entered by more than his gaze. He seemed to be making a decision. About me. Like maybe I’d said something that had him rethinking this. Before I could think of what to say next, he gathered up the pages, tapped them on the table, squared them…

And tore them all in half. And in half again. He placed the pile off to the side and took up his drink. “Do you remember your first orgasm?”

“... What?”

“How old were you?”

“What? Twelve. I was twelve.” I tried to answer just as casually as he’d asked. The only problem was that I lied. I’d been ten. Why did I lie? As if lying about two years somehow made it—made me—seem…what? More appropriate? More?—

“Was it easy?”

“I think so. Yes. It was.”

“Tell me how it happened.”

I saw myself in one of my childhood bedrooms. I could remember the room, but not the apartment it was in. We’d moved so much. Let’s say it was the Westport one. I saw my mattress on the floor. The Beauty and the Beast comforter. “One night I woke up. Or maybe it woke me up. And my pillow was already between my legs. And it just…I just…happened.” I took a sip—a large one. Finished it, actually. “I don’t know how much I had to do with it. So yeah. Easy-peasy.” I couldn’t help chuckling at that.

“And was it easy-peasy every time after that?” His smile was not mocking, but sweet, encouraging me to continue.

I returned his smile, an alcoholic burn warming my throat as I did. “I swear, back then I used to so much as look at my pillow and boom.”

Really, Claire? Good God.

“That was—I can’t believe I just...” I unbuttoned my jacket and began shrugging out of it, ignoring how his eyes watched the movement. “That drink is warming. Sneaks up on you.”

“It is. It does. My favorite winter cocktail. Has its own kind of buzz. Mellow. Like a good weed high. Relaxing.” He could’ve been describing his own tone of voice at that moment. “When did it get difficult?”

So we weren’t done with this. “Difficult? Who says it got difficult?”

“Apologies. So, you still climax easily?” He drank again.

Why lie about that, too? I mean, he’d find out the truth soon enough. I took a deep breath. “No. It is difficult. Quite difficult. Pretty much impossible now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal. Happens to a lot of women.”

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