Totally relaxed, he perched himself atop one of the barstools. “I came on my own fucking stomach, not anywhere on you. Sperm might be fast swimmers, but I don’t think they jump from one person to another.”
“Fisher! I rubbed against you. My…” I motioned between my legs “…I rubbed against you. And it … you … might have dripped. What if all of it didn’t go onto your stomach? What if a drop or two mixed with my … you know? And you can have SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND sperm in one drop of semen. Did you know that? Because I didn’t.”
Still, he didn’t seem the least bit phased by my concern. “I think the odds are greatly in your favor of not getting pregnant. That would be quite the story.” He chuckled before taking another swig of beer.
“No.” I shook my head a half dozen times. “That would not be quite the story.”
“Are you ovulating?” He stole some of my fire.
No. According to my app, I wasn’t ovulating. But … abstinence was the only certainty. And while we abstained from intercourse—well, full, bare penetration—we didn’t abstain from possibly mixing bodily fluids.
It was like he read my mind … my next train of thought.
“I would have thought you might have been more concerned about STDs than a rogue drop of semen. I know I’m safe with Virgin Therese, but you know I’ve been with other women. Yet you never asked me. Kinda stupid on your part, don’t you think?”
I deflated. I had been stupid. Young and so very stupid.
“I haven’t had unprotected sex … except what just happened with you, since I was last tested. You’re safe. So at least if you’re pregnant, you’ll have one less thing to worry about,” he said.
“Not helpful.”
Fisher grinned. “It’s a little helpful.”
“I’m not ovulating.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I was really worried about it.”
“That can’t happen again.”
He set down his beer and held up his hands in surrender. “I’m pretty sure you knocked on my door. And I guarantee you I wasn’t going to get you pregnant with my face between your legs.”
My jaw flapped a few times, but nothing came out.
“Maybe you should think about getting on birth control.”
“What?” My head jerked backward. “I’m not having sex.”
“Reese.” His smile vanished because he was being twenty-eight and I was being … younger. A lot younger.
Stupid.
Naive.
Childish.
I wasn’t stupid. I was scared and disappointed in myself. It was easier to act shocked and offended by his comment than to admit my part in what we did.
“It just …” I admitted my wrongdoing with the change—the defeat—in my tone instead of saying the actual words. “It can’t happen again.”
With a quick half shrug, he reached for his bottle of beer. “Agreed.”
“What if …” I cleared my throat. “Hypothetically, what if I were pregnant?”
“No.” He grunted. “No. We are not doing this. If you come back to me in a few weeks with a positive test, we’ll have this conversation. But I’m not having it now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not.”
“I think it’s irresponsible to not at least have a plan.”
“Me too. If I had a vagina, and I wanted to play peekaboo with the head of a guy’s dick, I’d plan ahead and be on birth control.”
Wow.
That hurt.
Fisher wasn’t just cold about it; he was cruel. Aloof, like he didn’t care about me.
“I’ll see you in the morning, unless I’m driving to the office and we’re not together.”
We’re not together.
It was funny how I managed to say exactly what was on my mind, just in a different context.
“We’re together.”
That hurt too because I knew he meant it completely in the work sense. He let Angie go. He let Teagan go. Why did I think I would be any different?
“Goodnight.”
Chapter Eighteen
I called Christina while making a sandwich, even though I wasn’t hungry because the previous twenty-four hours with Fisher had been unbelievable.
“Miss me already?” she answered.
“I need to talk. In person. Where are you?”
“Thirty minutes outside of Colorado Springs.”
“Ugh!” I viciously cut through my sandwich.
“What is it? Just tell me.”
“Do you have me on speaker?”
“No, why?”
“Because I’m out of control, and I … I don’t want anyone else to know. But I need advice because I’m losing my mind.”
She chuckled. “Okay. Take a breath. Tell me what’s going on. Does it have to do with Arnie or the other guy?”
Arnie.
I’d forgotten about Arnie and the made-up other guy, who wasn’t actually made-up at all.
“The other guy. He doesn’t want to have sex with me because I’m a virgin, so we’ve been doing everything but having actual sex … intercourse … you know what I mean. Anyway—”
“Whoa … wait. Back that shit up. He doesn’t want to have—”
“SHH! Don’t say it out loud. I don’t want Jamison to know I’m having issues in that department.”
“Okay, fine. So he doesn’t want to try your … cooking. That’s insane. Why not?”