“It was almost the opposite,” she says softly. “I love Summer. She’s always been great with Albie and me. And because she knew we both struggled socially, she’s always made an extra effort to help. She’d talk to me about boys and try to give me tips on how to talk to them, without realizing I had no comprehension of what she was saying. She was open about sex, too, because I think she wanted to take away the fear for me, but all it did was baffle me. At the time, when I was in my teens, I didn’t understand why anyone would want to let a guy do that to them. I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was nineteen. In the end, I had sex because I just wanted to get it over and done with, and it was as awful and painful and messy and embarrassing as I’d feared. And it’s never really been any different. I slept with Daniel because he was unrelenting, and I suppose I was beginning to be puzzled by the passion you see in the movies, and I thought I’d been unlucky and was missing out on something, but it was no different with him. So I’ve never liked sex very much.”
Her gaze comes back to me. “The things you’ve told me,” she continues, “I desperately want to believe they can be true, but I suppose I’m worried that’s just how it’s going to be for me.” She gives a little, helpless shrug.
I’m speechless for the second time in as many days, and say nothing while the waitress returns with our chocolate pudding and places it between us with two spoons. When she goes, I hand Poppy one of the spoons and pick up the other, and we both delve into the chocolate sponge. It breaks open, revealing a lava flow of molten chocolate.
Poppy eats a mouthful with a sigh. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t say things like that. I’ll end up giving you performance anxiety.”
I laugh, scoop up some of the sauce with the pudding, and eat it. It’s delicious. “That’s one thing I’m not worried about.”
“I’d feel terrible if I didn’t… you know… and you felt bad about it.”
“Christ. Poppy, that’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that…”
“I do.” I hold her gaze.
She blinks, her brows drawing together. “I don’t understand how you can be so confident.”
“Because you’re going to show me how you like to be touched. And I’m going to take my time. I don’t care if it takes all evening, or even all week, to get it right.” I reach out and take her hand for the first time. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Leave everything to me. After saying that, there are several things you can do to help. I know it’s impossible to ask you not to be nervous. But have a glass of wine. Try to relax. Enjoy yourself. Stop worrying about me—tonight I want you to concentrate on yourself. I’ll enjoy it no matter what happens.” She laughs. “And most importantly,” I conclude, “talk to me. It’s the easiest way to make sure I get it right.”
She lowers her gaze to the pudding and has another bite. A smear of chocolate sauce on her lip makes me ache to lean forward and lick it off.
“One more thing,” I tell her, pointing my spoon at her. “No faking it.”
She scratches her nose. “I shouldn’t have told you I did that.”
“You won’t need to do it with me, if you talk to me.”
She has another spoonful, and meets my eyes again. For the first time, I can see that her nerves are fading, to be replaced by excitement, and—something that gives me even more hope—a flicker of desire. She’s thinking about going to bed with me, and she’s excited about it. The wine’s beginning to have an effect, and so, hopefully, are my words.
I scoop up another spoonful of sauce. “I’m tempted to smuggle some of this back to the lighthouse.”
“I know what you mean. It’d be nice to have a supply for a midnight snack.”
“Actually I was thinking about how fun it would be to drizzle it over you and then lick it off.”
She stops with the spoon halfway to her mouth and stares at me.
“Oh come on,” I scoff, “one of your boyfriends must have done the whipped cream thing. Sprayed it on with a can and then licked it off.”