A Match Made in Vegas Read Online Crystal Kaswell

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"Good, but not great. Until we broke up. Then it was."

"Why do you think that is?"

"How much am I paying for this session, Dr. Freud?"

"Dr. Freud would say you're obviously anal-retentive and so you're into pegging."

"Would he?" Jackson raises a brow. "I don't remember that part of Physc 101."

"If he was around today," I say.

"Are you into pegging?"

"No," I say. "Have you tried it?"

"No," he says. "But I would if a girlfriend asked."

How the fuck did we get on this topic. "Really?"

"It's only fair."

Fairness again. That's a thing for him. "How is that?"

"I try to stay open-minded."

That isn't how I'd describe him.

"To try anything once," he continues.

"Is that what you expect from your girlfriends?" I ask.

"Not necessarily," he says. "Sometimes, you know something isn't for you. Instinctively. But if it's a maybe, I try to give it a shot. And I ask the same."

"And if you're going to stick it in her ass, she should be able to stick it in yours."

He does the last thing I expect. He laughs.

"Is it that funny?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He shoots me that same really look Cassie has. "Ask yourself that question."

"Do you… is that something you're into?"

"Not in particular," he says. "But I honor requests."

"And your ex. Was she into that?"

"Into what?" He challenges me to say the words out loud.

Right. I'm a sex researcher. And I started this conversation. "Into anal sex?"

"She was," he says. "She liked the taboo of it. She was like you."

Is that my sexual aura? Is there some combination of body language, tone of voice, and dress that says yes, please stick it in my ass?

He laughs at my awkwardness. "A fan of Dr. Freud."

Huh?

"A shrink. But not one who saw patients. Not normal patients. She was an expert witness."

"Isn't that a job for older people?" I ask.

"Usually," he says. "She was a little older than I am."

"Do you like older women?" I ask.

"I like their confidence," he says. "I like a woman who knows what she wants."

Do not say anal sex. Do not say anal sex. Stop thinking about—I'm not even saying it in my head. I bite my tongue and swallow the ridiculous thoughts that try to find my lips. I am not flirting with him. No way. No how. "Why was it better after you broke up? In your best estimation?"

He doesn't call me on the change of topic. "She was holding back, before. We both were."

"What changed?"

"We stopped assuming we'd get married." He says it with a sort of finality. As if he's not willing to elaborate or explain.

I try to fill in the blanks. A Madonna whore complex, maybe. Common with men. Where they can only see a woman as pure and virginal (a proper wife) or dirty and sexy (a whore).

But he said it was her too. So, did she see him that way or herself?

A man is either a husband who enjoys missionary with the lights off or a freak who wants to tie you up and stick it in your ass.

Fuck.

And I was doing so well.

I'm not even interested in anal sex! What the fuck is wrong with me?

I tried it once with one of the boyfriends who claimed our sex life was lacking because it "had gotten stale."

It was fine. A little uncomfortable. A lot awkward. Not at all sexy.

I never wanted to try it again.

But it would be different with Jackson. Everything I've tried would be different with Jackson.

No. I'm focusing on his dysfunction, not mine. "Was that a mutual decision or did one of you want something else?"

"I couldn't give her what she wanted," he says. "We both agreed on that. We parted on good terms."

Right.

"She told me to hook up with someone here." He shakes his head this is ridiculous. "Minutes after I talked her off, she told me to go hook up with someone."

That is a very vivid mental image.

He doesn't notice the distraction in my expression. "She says that's the only way I know how to have fun."

"Well—" I bite my tongue. I shouldn't call the guy a square—I mean, he just said he'd try pegging!—but let's face it. In all other ways, he is.

"You agree?" he asks.

I mime zipping my lips again.

"No. Tell me the truth. It won't hurt my feelings."

"Really? If I say you're no fun, I hate hanging out with you. That wouldn't hurt?"

"The latter would. Not the former," he says.

"I wouldn't describe you as fun, no."

"And you?" he asks.

"What about me?" I ask.

"How would you describe yourself?"

"Well, I'm not talking off my exes at work," I say. "But I enjoy myself."

"Oh yeah, turning in at nine to watch Doctor Who?" A teasing tone drops into his voice.

Which is way too sexy. Especially since he's so wrong.

Doctor Who is amazing, and what is more fun than watching TV on the couch with your best friend? Or at least on the couch on your own.


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