Page 93 of The Faking Game

“How’ve you handled it in the past?”

I look down at my food and lie through my teeth. “Always used condoms. I told you, never been in a relationship.”

“Save going without for that. And make the bastard show you a doctor’s note.” His voice is a bit rough, too, and his jaw works. He cuts into his steak with more force than necessary.

We eat in silence for half a minute. I feel too hot, my legs rubbing together beneath the table. I don’t know if I’ve ever been turned on during a date before. But right now, all I can think of is what his hand would look like gripping something other than a steak knife.

He reaches for another card, his face smoothing out. The annoyance disappears. “Well,” he says. “Funny, considering it was the one word you couldn’t handle. How often do you masturbate?”

I force out a smooth, polite laugh. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a very personal question.”

“That’s the point of this lesson, trouble. To get personal.”

I curve my fingers around my glass of wine. The surface is cool against my too-hot skin. “I’ve never spoken about that with anyone before.”

“No one?”

“No. It’s not something that comes up in conversation.” My lips part. “Not mine, at least. Does it for you?”

West runs a hand along his jaw, hiding a smile. “Not daily, at least.”

“I guess couples talk about that sort of thing. And this game is for a couple.”

“Yes. But if you’re dating a man, if you’re planning on… if you’re sleeping with him,” he says, the words coming out through gritted teeth, “you should be able to have a conversation with him about all these things. Protection, safety, boundaries, safe words, your wants, your needs. Your own pleasure.”

My stomach tightens, butterflies fighting with a roiling snake. Funny how I used to run from being uncomfortable. Now it feels like I’m hurtling myself headfirst into it daily.

“Once or twice a week,” I say into my wine. “I guess.”

West’s eyebrows rise slightly. “You guess?”

“Well, I don’t exactly keep alogbook.”

His lips curve. “All right. Twice a week is good. Toys?”

“I haven’t tried one. I guess it’s easy to end up in a routine when something… works.”

He leans back. “It is. But maybe getting to know yourself more will help with all of this. If you’re going to ask for what you want, it helps to know what that is.”

I cut into my ravioli. “Yeah. Maybe. But I feel like I need to even get there with a guy in order for it to become relevant. Again.” I tack on the last word and hope it doesn’t sound too much like an afterthought. “What about you? How often do you…?”

Silence stretches out for a few long seconds. Maybe he won’t respond. Maybe he’s done with this game.

“More often than that,” he finally says. “Especially lately.”

“Oh. Is that because of… me?” I ask. His eyes flash to mine, and then immediately narrow. Shoot. “I mean, because you’re pretending to date me, and you’re busy? So you don’t have time for your usual… hook-ups.”

He cuts into the final piece of his meat. “You’re right,” West says, “that I haven’t been with anyone since you moved to New York.”

“So I’m standing in your way,” I say, and the sick realization that he might otherwise be out there, dating, if he wasn’therewith me?—

“No. Don’t think that for a single fucking second. Okay? I’m happy where I am.”

“You mean that.”

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