Holy shit, we have to break up.

"Oh, God. Teagan!" Lenny moans as he finishes. His body shudders the way it always does after a hard four minutes of work. His expression is one of elation, but all I feel is frustration.

This is fixable. This is something that can be improved upon with proper time and training. Right? It's not worth overlooking all the blindingly positive traits he has. He's intelligent, kind, and that body . . .

The sweat glistens against the defined muscles of his chest, taunting me. I stroke my hands against them as he catches his breath. I guess it wouldn't be fair if he were perfect in every way. He just can't seem to figure this out, even after five long months of trying. Five aggravating, vexatious, frustrating months.

He looks down at me, wetting his lips between panting. "That was so good," he says. Was it, Lenny? Was it?

He lies atop me and wraps me up in a hug. When I'm not looking at him, I don't like him nearly as much. I stare up at the ceiling in annoyance, dropping it for a smile when he turns his head to look at me. "Did you . . . ?"

If you have to ask, the answer is no. "I . . . No, I didn't," I admit. "I was close though." I wasn't close at all. The sun is closer to that orgasm than I was.

He looks rueful, as if realizing he let me down. He did. "I'm sorry, I thought you had."

Bitch, where? "No," I tell him in as gentle a tone as I can manage. He's a sensitive, little lamb, but he has yet to figure out I'm a lioness, always ready to fight for what I want. I've been playing coy to keep from scaring him away, but it gets harder every day that passes. "It takes me a while to get there," I tell him. He nods in understanding and presses an apologetic kiss on my cheek. "There are . . . other things we could do to help me along, you know."

"Like what?" he asks. He brushes his hand over my cheek. "I'll do anything you want."

"Well . . ." I tread lightly. "You could go down on me."

His gaze drops from mine and his mouth presses into a straight line. "I told you that makes me uncomfortable."

"I know you had a bad experience with a partner before, but I'm very rigorous about my hygiene, it would never—"

"No, Teagan. I don't want to."

"Okay, okay," I coddle him. "Then . . . Would you let me do things to help me along?"

"You shouldn't need those things when you have me. I should be enough."

He pulls out and rolls over to sit on the edge of the bed. I stare at his back, watching his muscles flex as he fumbles with the condom. God, why does he have to be so damn attractive? Every part of my body wants him, only to get nothing when I have him.

He's the human equivalent of a bag of chips. The image promises so much, but you buy it and find out it's mostly air and won't go down on you.

"I don't think this relationship is working," I blurt out.

He turns to me with a shocked expression. "What? Why?"

I sit up, holding the covers to my chest. "Because I'm not happy."

"Not happy?" He asks, looking as if he wants to cry. It would break my heart if I had one. "How can you not be happy? I thought you loved me."

"Well . . ." The L-word is a little strong for what I feel for him, but that's beside the point right now. "I care about you—obviously I do, Lenny. It's just . . . You . . ." The frustration sets in again. I ask nothing of him. I don't need his money or his connections. I just want him to get me off. Why is that so much to ask? "You haven't given me a single orgasm the entire time we've been together, and it is driving me insane."

"I want to satisfy you. I've been trying."

"Have you though?" I laugh out of frustration rather than humor, which I realize comes off as insane as I'm about to seem. "It's been months of the same shit. You don't like it when I touch myself or suggest toys. And what kind of straight dude doesn't eat pussy? Like, honestly?"

His mouth drops open. "Excuse me?"

"If I didn't suck your dick or get you off, you would have dumped me months ago and you damn well know it. But here you are sitting on your high horse acting like it personally offends you to return the favor!" What is wrong with me? I don't know the answers to that question, but I know I feel a hell of a lot better getting it off my chest.

He stares at me in disbelief. "I've never heard you talk like this before," he says. "Who are you right now?"

"Someone who is sexually frustrated," I tell him. "You are the most irritating person I have ever met! You have an amazing mind and an absolutely ridiculous body, but you have no idea how to use either. How can someone be a national merit scholar and not be able to figure out what a fucking clitoris is?!" I shout.

He shakes his head. "So this is the real you?" he asks. "I'm very disappointed."

I leer at him. "Well, now you know how I've felt every time you've been inside me."

The silence is awkward as he redresses. He grabs his wallet and keys from the top of my dresser. He doesn't turn back to me when he walks out of my room. I listen for the sound of my front door closing before I flop down with a sigh.

A giggle bubbles up and breaks the silence. I cover my smiling mouth with a hand.

. . .

Breaking up at the start of summer, Teagan? Really?

To most people, summer is a time to celebrate, have fun, and relax in the sun. But in my world, it's cuffing season. Weddings, business parties, black tie events. With one million places to see and be seen, getting seen without a date triggers me.

Being adopted has its ups and downs. One of the ups was getting rich parents that loved me and my brothers more than anything. One of the downs was having them feel the need to prove they did by showing we were a family—and a happy one—before anyone had the chance to ask. At the summer social gatherings, they always had us dressed to the nines, making sure we were coordinated, on-theme, and appropriate for the occasion, never letting us stick out for the wrong reason. Now, I have an irrational fear of showing up to parties without meeting every ostentatious expectation.

I try to remind myself that the operative word is irrational.

My dress tickles against the tops of my feet as I walk into the banquet hall. I feel confident that the floor-length, high slit, and cowel neckline are up to par for a black-tie event, but I'm not feeling confident that my orgasm-less sex hair is doing the same. I was too stressed to coax my curls back into compliance. Swooping them up into a makeshift updo was the best I could do.

The room is huge, filled with people. The white walls and lofty ceiling make me feel like I'm walking onto a stage. I pull my fingernail away from the absent-minded gnawing of my teeth.

"Teags!"

I look toward the voice to find Ryan standing with his arm around his future bride and a glass of champagne in his hand. Mary is, luckily, nothing like her boring name. She has forever been the life of the party, and painfully kind. Ryan was a decent guy before they met, but in his four years with her, he's grown into a compassionate, admirable person. The only way I could be happier for them would be if I didn't have to attend five different parties to celebrate their impending marriage.

"Congratulations, you two!" I give them both kisses on the cheek, careful not to touch my freshly lacquered lips to their skin. "You look amazing, Mary." She did. The rhinestone-studded mermaid gown hugging every curve, its gold color flattering her tan skin. "All this sparkle to match the bling."

She holds up her hand and wriggles her fingers, the proudest smile on her face. I don't care about diamond rings or weddings, but I know my role.

"You did good, Ry." Why do people say that? It's not like he birthed the ring. He didn't even labor for the money to afford it.

"The whole gang is here," Ryan gestures behind me to the rest of our Prep-School Douche Squad. Yes, I apply that nomenclature to myself as well.

"Right. I better go say hi and you need to mingle. I'll catch you two later." More kisses and a wave goodbye.

I walk over to the gang. They smile when they see me approaching. My second assigned family. They're not bad guys, but I don't know if we'd be friends if it were our choice. There's a kind of mandatory network that is created when you are stuck in the same places with the same people for fifteen years. Primary, Secondary, now University. Our graduating class was only forty people. Out of that, six of us went to Columbia.

Whether or not we actually like each other, we're family at this point. We show up for every milestone, every holiday party, every class reunion. Even though I've always been the token everything—token black friend, token female, token immigrant, token whatever made them feel like they had worldly friends and weren't a bunch of rich, white dudes with absolutely no touch on reality . . . I still kind of love them.

"Teags!" the guys say in unison. It makes me smile.

"Hey, guys." We are all here. Brett and his wife, Jeremy and Ritchie with their long-term beaus, and . . . Heath. His gray eyes meet mine and I ignore the ache in my chest.

He always cleaned up well considering how much of a jock he is. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tux impeccably pressed. He lifts his glass to greet me. I give him a nod and we go back to ignoring each other.

It's hard to appreciate his Calvin-Klein-model perfection when it's hidden behind his glaring, douchebag persona, but that doesn't seem to be the case for most women. It definitely isn't for the pilates-body blonde he has wrapped around his arm.

Everyone has a date except me. Great.

"Didn't think you were going to make it," Jeremy jeers, his eyes crinkling. He and his boyfriend look so much alike—burly, kind brown eyes, the same groomed beards—it's weird. He had a much shorter commute coming from his boyfriend's place rather than our apartment. Lucky him.

"You try walking six blocks in these shoes," I say, swishing the end of my gown to the side to reveal them.

"Okay, Angelina Jolie. I see you working that high slit," Jeremy's boyfriend, Chet, compliments me, making me smile. He is always the encouraging salve after Jeremy's cutting remarks.

"Where's your guy?" Brett asks. Of course he does. He and Felicity got married last summer and haven't stopped talking about it since. They look like generic wedding topper figurines, so I guess the shoe fits. "I thought you were dating that buff lawyer dude?"

Dammit. "Oh, we're not together anymore," I say with a casual wave of my hand.

"Oh, really?" he keeps going. "I thought you two were getting serious. We had a bet going that you'd be the next ones to get engaged."

My heart kicks up to an anxious pace. "Apparently not."

A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne flutes. I grab one with a bit too much enthusiasm then down the whole thing in one go.

Thank God for open bars, am I right?  

_____

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