Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “I said that I wasn’t going to have sex with you.”

            I frown. “That’s the same thing.”

            “It’s not.”

            My mind rushes to catch up. Then it does, and my entire body flushes with heat.

            “Is that how you interpreted what I said?” He sounds incredulous. “Lack of interest?”

            I shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t cut deep.

            “You think I don’t want to fuck you,” he says, blunt as always.

            “Why else?”

            “Why else.”

            I clear my throat. “Why else won’t you?”

            Jack shakes his head. His jaw has a stubborn set, like this is a rule he’s made for himself, something he’s thought a great deal about. “It’s what’s best for you. For us. Right now.”

            “I’m sorry, did you . . .” I clear my throat. “Did you just inform me that we’re not going to have sex, because it’s what best for us?”

            He nods once, like he would to a known, undisputed fact. Water molecules slow down light. And that’s when I stand, indignant. “You understand that this should be the product of a dialogue between two people, right?” I’m barefoot. He’s so much taller than me, my neck protests the unnatural angle. “You can’t just hand out decisions without explanation—”

            “I can, actually.” The way he bends down can’t be comfortable, either. We’re sharing about two square feet of space. Cross-armed. Unsmiling. A second ago we were joking on the couch. What the hell?

            “This is incredibly patronizing. You can’t assume that you know what’s best for—”

            “Okay, then.” He shifts forward, and I can feel every millimeter. “How do I make you come?”

            I . . . must have misunderstood. “What?”

            “What do you like when having sex? What do you want? What are your needs?” His eyes are pools of black in the dim lights. “How do I make you come?”

            I shake my head. Edward is moving at light speed to save his love, and my mind is as slow as a slug. “Sorry?”

            “You said it was patronizing of me not to discuss sex. So let’s talk.” This is the Jack from our first meeting: challenging, uncompromising, demanding. “Unless it makes you feel uncomfortable. A good sign that maybe it’s best for you not to have it, either, but—”

            “That’s not it,” I hurry to say. But maybe it is, a little. I don’t talk about sex very much with people. Just Cece, and mostly in terms of what fourteenth-century nuns were supposedly up to when they should have been tending to the herb garden. But it has nothing to do with comfort. We don’t talk about sex for the same reason we don’t talk about stock dividends: we have very little of it.

            “Then tell me,” he repeats. His look shifts to something that’s not quite daring. Like for once this is not a power play of his, and he genuinely wants to know. “How do I make you come?”

            “This is such a weird thing to ask. I—” Light bulb: on. “Oh my God. You think I’m inexperienced.” I laugh right in his face. “I’m not. I’ve had sex with J.J., like, a million times, in a million ways!” I add, just to get a reaction out of him. But Jack’s reaction is infuriatingly nonexistent. “You think I’m lying?”

            “I don’t. If you told me you’re a card-carrying member of the Orgy of the Month Club, I’d believe you. But since you have all that experience, you’ll have no problem telling me: How do I make you come?”

            I open my mouth and . . . immediately close it.

            “I’m waiting, Elsie.”

            I hate him when he’s like this. Just—smug and merciless and all-seeing and—

            “Still waiting.”

            I look down at my feet, the stockings sheer around my toes, and all of a sudden I’m feeling just . . .