Page 100 of Off the Grid

My issues have never come from not wanting sex or not being attracted to the person I’m with. That is simple. It’s the fact that when it gets to intimacy, the spark you’re supposed to feel? That snap of a live wire when the other person touches you? It doesn’t happen. Sex for me is like going through the motions for the sake of going through them.

One should never dread intimacy and yet that has been exactly how I’ve felt since Brandon.

Do I know what an orgasm feels like? Yes, and only because I’ve given myself one by my own hand to prove to myself that I’m not broken and actually do feel.

But has a man ever physically helped me achieve one?

No. Nope. Never.

Well . . . no man except Riggs. Or rather, the dream version of Riggs.

I pick up the magazine and fan through it. Is this magazine here because he thinks he ruined mine or because he’s renewing his offer?

Seconds pass as I stare at the bound pages, my nerves building.

What part? The you wanting to kiss me or the me wanting to do so much more with you?

I drop my purse and my tote bag on the floor just inside the door and stride down the hall toward his door.

Each step my confidence wanes and my nerves dance.

A part of me hopes he doesn’t answer the door when I knock. The other part wonders what the hell I’m going to say to him if he does.

And as if on cue, he opens the door, shirtless, and in a pair of gray sweatpants.

Of course he’s wearing that.

“Well, hello there.” He smirks and narrows his eyes, clearly aware that I’m worked up about something.

“Hi. Yes.” Oh shit. I stride past him and into his flat. I falter for a minute as I take in the rich colors and weathered wood. It looks so very different—emptier—than the last time I was here.

“You were saying?” Riggs asks, prompting me to turn around and meet his amused eyes and arms crossed over his chest that makes every muscle visible. Bulge. I drag my eyes up to meet his and his raised eyebrows.

Breathe, Camilla. Breathe.

“Here’s the deal. I have what you want, and you have something I need.”

“Here I am, baby,” he teases with his arms out, a cocky grin deepening his dimples.

“Exactly.”

“What?” If whiplash were a meme, it would be the snapping up of Riggs’s head and the shocked opening of his eyes.

I hold a finger up to stop him from talking just as he starts. “You want a full-time F1 ride. Your perks. For me to put in a good word for you with another team when Maxim comes back.”

“Yes.” He draws the word out, that cocky smirk now fading as his eyes narrow. “I’m not following you. I mean I am, believe me I am . . . but make it make sense.”

“I’m working through some things.”

“You’re going to have to give me more than that, Gasket.”

I emit an annoyed sigh at the silly nickname, failing at making myself believe that a part of me doesn’t find it endearing.

“Cat got your tongue?” he eggs on.

“Sex.”

“A three-letter word. Starts with S. Is a noun but personally I think it should be a verb considering there’s a lot of action going on when you have it. And clearly something that makes you blush. What am I missing here?”