She pokes at her fish with her fork.
“Come on,” I tease. “Do you really want to get pregnant by a doctor sticking a syringe inside you? I’m no scientist, but it must make a difference if a baby is conceived with affection. And I have a lot of affection for you. We’re good friends, aren’t we?”
She studies my face, her green eyes thoughtful. “Yes,” she says eventually. “We are.”
“Well, then. What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t want to break your heart.”
That makes my eyebrows rise. “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”
She finishes off her fish and sits back. I can see something else is bothering her.
“Out with it,” I tell her.
“As you said, we’re good friends and… I like you. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“In what way?”
“In bed.”
“Why on earth would you disappoint me in…” My voice trails off. She’s talking about Daniel. The bastard criticized her about sex. Holy fucking shit, I’m going to smash the son of a bitch’s face in.
“Right,” I tell her, “that’s it. We’re definitely having sex. And lots of it, until I can convince you how amazing you are.”
That makes her laugh. The waiter comes over and takes our plates, then asks us if we want a dessert.
“They do a mean chocolate sundae here,” I advise Poppy. She nods, so I ask for two sundaes, and the waiter goes off again.
She looks out across the beach, lost in thought, so I take the opportunity to study her. The late evening sun gives her pale skin an amber glow and turns her hair to a flaming red. I can imagine how it would look spread out across a white pillow. My heart aches for her. I’m no Casanova, but even with my rudimentary skills in the bedroom, I like to think I can give a woman a good time. I want to take Poppy to bed and watch her face light up as she realizes how wrong Daniel was. I want to prove to her she’s a goddess, and the only thing she has to do to turn me on is to be there.
I know she’s withdrawn socially since her breakup. Nix told me she rarely goes out with the other girls, and at work she tends to keep to herself over at the petting farm. Her breakup severely traumatized her. I want to mend that wound. Even if we don’t work out, if I can make her feel better about herself, and about having a relationship, it’ll be worth it.
She’s obviously thinking about what I’ve said, because she stays lost in thought until the waiter returns with our sundaes.
I dip my spoon in the chocolate ice cream and have a spoonful. Poppy does the same, scooping up some whipped cream and tiny marshmallows with it, and sighing as she places it in her mouth. “Mmm. That’s lovely.” She turns her spoon over and sucks the ice cream off it, watching me curiously.
“You’re thinking about all those orgasms, aren’t you?” I ask her, delving the spoon into the chocolate sauce.
“I still think you’re fibbing,” she says. “I don’t believe any man would bother to bring a woman to a climax every time they have sex.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Many men enjoy foreplay, and anyway, the decent ones want to please their girl and make sure they enjoy it. It’s also another point for the sex versus IVF debate. Studies suggest that taking time to arouse a woman increases sperm count. And there’s evidence that the lubrication a woman produces during foreplay creates an ideal environment for sperm to swim and survive. There’s scientific proof that nature wants you to have good sex.”
“Even if that was true,” she says, “it doesn’t mean it happens on a regular basis. Most guys aren’t patient at the best of times.”
“Jesus, Poppy, you’re talking as if it takes three hours.”
“Well…”
I reach out my spoon and steal a Malteser from the top of her sundae. She notices, but doesn’t say anything. “Let’s put it this way,” I say. “How long does it take you to achieve an orgasm when you’re on your own?”
That shocks her. She stares at me, her mouth open, and a touch of color appears in her cheeks. “I… um…”