Page 65 of Mistaken Impression

His smile widens. “Unless I’m much mistaken, you don’t have anything to judge that by, do you?”

“No. But you seem big to me.” I lower myself a little further onto him, proving the point.

“Has it occurred to you that maybe you’re tight?”

“I don’t know. Is being tight a good thing?”

“In this situation, it’s a fabulous thing.”

“And I’m gonna assume you’ve got something to judge that by?” I’m not sure I like that thought. In fact, I’m pretty sure I hate it, but I finally settle onto him, swiveling my hips to get comfortable.

“Yeah, I have.” He rests his hands flat on my thighs, like he feels the need to hold me in place, and looks into my eyes. “Do you want to know about it?”

“Your past?” He nods his head and I shrug my shoulders, wondering if now is the best time to have this conversation, or if we should even have started it. “I don’t know. Do I?”

“If not knowing is going to make you look as doubtful as you do now, and make you worry, and imagine all kinds of things that aren’t there, then maybe you do.”

“How did you know I’m worried?”

He sits up so his chest is crushed against my breasts, his arms coming around me as he dusts his lips over mine. “Because I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s good…”

“That I’m so transparent?”

“You’re not transparent. You’re open, and that’s how it should be. We’re not supposed to have secrets.”

He’s right. I’m in love with him, and I’d like to think he feels something for me, even if it isn’t love yet. And that means there shouldn’t be any secrets between us. “Okay… tell me.”

“Don’t sound so scared. There’s nothing much to tell.” He rests his forehead against mine for a moment and then leans back, although he keeps a tight hold on me. “First, I have to say, I don’t sleep around. I never have.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So… how many women have you slept with, other than me?”

“Eight.”

“Over how many years?”

“Fifteen.”

I nod my head. That seems reasonable to me… a lot more reasonable than my brothers, who probably used to get through that many women in a month.

“Were any of them serious?” I ask.

“I suppose you could say three of them were, in that we dated for more than six months.”

“And did you live with any of them?”

“Yes. One. Her name was Moira.”

I pull back just slightly. “D—Did you love her?”

“No.” He shakes his head, as though he wants to make the point doubly clear.

“You mentioned having a girlfriend before you left England… was that Moira?”

“Yes, it was.”

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