March 2007

ZOE

Mark lounges on the sofa, feet kicked up on the arm rest with his legs crossed at his ankles. He nibbles the end of his pencil as he stares at his latest sudoku. Sometimes he'll spend hours at a time on just one puzzle. It's impressive, having the mental capacity to concentrate for such long periods.

From my spot curled up on the armchair, my eyes flit between the magazine in my hands and Mark's relaxed body. Whatever his motivations for going to the gym, it's paying off. His t-shirts are a little tighter, stretching over broad shoulders and clinging to his lean waist. One sinewy bicep flexes when he lowers the pencil to the page, and a flash of heat sears the space between my legs. God, he's so hot.

I look back down at the magazine, at the feature quiz that prompted my shameless staring session. How well do you know your partner inside the bedroom?

Not quite the same calibre as a fiendish sudoku, but my head spins with theories all the same. Mark won't open up to me about anything too personal; our conversations are very much surface-level, and that's fine on a day-to-day basis, but it creates this air of mystery that frustrates me.

How can you live with someone and know nothing about their inner thoughts? Their basic desires? Sure, I've caught him checking me out on a few occasions, but his face has been infuriatingly unreadable, so it's entirely possible he was judging my short skirt or trying to work out why I was wearing a low-cut top with no bra. Apart from his grief- or guilt-driven statement after the funeral four months ago, I've had nothing from him.

"Do you mind?" His dry voice filters across the living room, though he doesn't look up from his puzzle.

"Mind what?" I ask.

"Staring at me constantly. It's off-putting."

I stiffen, my fingers tightening around the shiny pages of the magazine. Do I really lack that much subtlety? Embarrassment creeps down my spine. It's bad enough that I find him attractive when he clearly doesn't reciprocate it; him noticing that is so much worse.

"How's the puzzle going?" I ask.

"Almost done." He jots another number onto the page.

"Taking your time, aren't you? What's it been—three hours?"

His gaze flicks up to mine. "It's tough, and I don't start a new one until I've finished the one I'm on."

He doesn't seem rattled, and that just irritates me further. My eyes refocus on the set of questions in front of me. God, what I'd give to chip into that hard exterior of his. To catch him off-guard. To make him feel the way he makes me feel.

"Maybe you should try it sometime, Zoe." A light-hearted edge accompanies his cool words. "It'd be a good change of pace from that trash you're reading over there."

He's teasing, in that deadpan way of his, but I still bristle from the insinuation, and it inspires a surge of confidence, powered by my fragile ego.

"This trash has its own quizzes, actually, and I would bet anything you'd fail at them."

"They about dresses and mascara and shit? You're right, I probably would fail."

I grit my teeth. "This one's about sex. Would you fail at that, too?"

The pencil stills on the page. Finally I've hit a nerve. A well-hidden one, but I can see it strain beneath his shell.

"Doubt it," he says coolly, still not granting me the privilege of his full attention. "I can't imagine there's anything ground-breaking in there."

"An expert, are you?" I push a little harder.

"I know what I'm doing."

God, he's so annoying. Even more annoying is the fact he's probably right, and I'll never get to experience it myself. That honour is reserved for bitchy girls from work or randomers from clubs.

"Want to bet on it?" I ask.

Finally, he looks up at me, one brow cocked in curiosity. "On what? Who knows the most about sex?"

Heat warms my cheeks, but I refuse to back down. That's what he'd want, and I'm so close to getting beneath his surface. To seeing something I've not seen in him before. Plus maybe he'd look at me a little differently and realise I'm not a delicate good girl who needs protecting all the time.

But when I glance at the quiz again, hesitance hits me. It's about partners. We've never had sex. Never even kissed. He's going to think it's some weird come on, like I'm trying to discover his sexual preferences. I mean, that's exactly what I'm trying to do, but I can't have him knowing that.

"Chickening out already?" He clicks his tongue and goes back to his sudoku. "Shame."

The glossy page crinkles against my palm, and I loosen my iron-glad grip on the magazine. He's baiting me. I can see it. And like an idiot, I bite.

"It's a bad example," I say. "This one is about how well you know your partner. Not really relevant for us."

There. Totally cool. And reasonable.

"I know you well enough." He shrugs. "Bet I could still ace it."

His confidence is both attractive and annoying. I want him to fail. He probably thinks I'm all about missionary sex with rose petals and candles.

"You know nothing about that side of me," I tell him.

"Maybe not." He scribbles another number into his grid. "You are exceptionally easy to read, though, so I can take educated guesses."

My mouth drops open. Is he for real? I am not that easy to read. Crap. What if I am? What if he knows every dirty thought that streams through my head when I think he's not looking? No. He can't know that.

"So are we doing this or not?" He peeks up at me, green eyes glinting.

Now I'm not so sure. I want to know his answers more than anything, but do I really want to know what he thinks of mine?

Screw it. I'll up the ante and see if that puts him off.

"I'm game, but let's make this interesting. Every answer we each get wrong, we take off an item of clothing. First person to bottle it, loses."

His mouth twists in contemplation as he trails a thoughtful path down my body with his eyes. Is he wondering if I'm worth it? I'm not ashamed of my body. Years of gymnastics have formed a figure I actually love. He doesn't know that. He doesn't have a clue what I'm hiding under these clothes.

"Fine." His gaze meets mine again, impassive and unconcerned. Bored, even. "I'll finish my sudoku, then we'll go."

"Fine."

His lips twitch, like he thinks he's already won. I leave him alone on the sofa and stroll into my bedroom, trying to look as casual as possible so he doesn't suspect anything. Then I tear off my clothes and pull on my sexiest pair of matching underwear, because if my arrogant flatmate is going to beat me, he's going to suffer doing it.

*

"First question." I sit cross-legged in the armchair and glance at him over the top of my magazine. "Do I prefer to give head or receive head?"

Mark, now wearing a hoodie over his t-shirt because apparently he isn't as confident as he first claimed, scrubs a hand over his jaw and casts his eyes towards the window. His face remains stoic, unyielding, and I no longer regret my choice to forge ahead with this game.

"Give," he says eventually.

My eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"

"Yes. You're a people-pleaser. You'd rather give someone else pleasure than receive it yourself."

That assessment rubs me up the wrong way. Is that how he sees me? A push over?

"You're wrong," I say, and I can't even summon the arrogance to be smug about it.

"About what?" He leans back into the cushions and props a foot on his knee. So relaxed. At ease.

"Both. I'm not a people-pleaser, and I'd much rather get an orgasm myself than bring someone closer to an orgasm that they are guaranteed to get regardless."

Surprise flickers across his stony face, but then his brows knit together in suspicion.

"This game only works if we're both honest with our answers," he says.

"I am being honest! I don't mind giving head, but if it's a choice between getting him off and getting me off... I choose me." I smile sweetly at him.

Mark clears his throat and sits up straighter. "Okay. If you say so."

Either he doesn't believe me, or he just doesn't want to admit he was wrong. Seconds later, he's rising from the sofa and striding towards the kitchen cupboard. He pulls out a notebook and two pens, tears a few sheets out, then hands me what's left.

"What's this?" I ask.

He plops down onto the sofa again and flicks the lid off his pen.

"Just to ensure neither of us try to cheat, we're each going to write the answer down before showing it. Then we can't change it based on what the other person says."

I narrow my eyes. "I am not a cheater, Mark."

"Then you won't mind playing it this way, will you?" He drops his pen and paper onto the coffee table, crosses his arms across his stomach to grab the hem of his hoodie, then drags it over his head in one fell swoop. "My turn?"

I toss the magazine at him like a frisbee, and he plucks it out of the air before it hits him in the face. Shame.

"What would your answer have been, by the way?" I ask him.

I don't expect him to volunteer the information, and sure enough he ignores me.

"Question two," he reads, "how many people have I slept with?"

I tap my pen against the notebook. "You know, this is a much harder question. My question was fifty-fifty."

"And somehow I still got it wrong..."

I roll my eyes at his tone. If he thinks I'm lying, it will make victory even sweeter.

For a few moments, I contemplate throwing the question by drawing a snarky zero, but I know he's definitely slept with Ruby and I don't have the balls to challenge him on it. Instead, I try to follow his wrist movement to decipher which number he's writing. When that fails, I settle on a round ten.

"Wrong," he says as I flick the notebook round to show him.

He turns his own page to reveal 9. I wince. So close.

"When was the last time you slept with someone?" I ask, because I'm not giving up on my quest for extra intelligence.

"A while ago."

"That's vague."

"It's all you're getting."

"Why are you being so cagey?" I fold my arms and scowl.

"I'm not giving you any information that will help you win this quiz."

My heart lifts slightly, mainly because he's insinuating he's only holding back out of competitiveness, but also because his confidence has wavered.

"You're forgetting something." He tips his chin towards me.

I slide my cardigan over my shoulders and let it fall to a crumpled heap on the floor. Mark's eyes track it, probably unimpressed with the mess. With a sigh, he tosses the magazine onto the coffee table between us, and I reach across to retrieve it.

"Third question. Where's the most outrageous place I've had sex?" I read.

Damn. Would have preferred that one for him. My answer is boring and probably plays into his preconceived opinion of me. I write down 'car' and watch as Mark spends a long time thinking again. Either he's taking this too seriously, or he's genuinely trying to read me to guess the answers.

"Ready?" I prompt.

He spins his paper around and my heart falls.

CAR

"Well?" He raises an eyebrow.

I huff and fling the magazine back onto the table. It lands with a sharp slap and skids a few inches towards him.

"You can pull out at any time," he tells me with a sickeningly smug smirk.

"I don't like pulling out."

"I'll bear that in mind for future questions..." His eyes twinkle with something scarily close to mischief. He's making fun of me now. Great. So not only am I losing at a quiz I thought I'd easily win, I'm embarrassing myself doing it.

"What's the kinkiest thing I've done in bed?" he reads.

My sex life has been relatively vanilla. To look at him, all stoic and emotionless, you'd assume the same, but I suspect he's done some weird things in his time. Maybe nothing too crazy—he's a law-abiding citizen after all—but probably a bit of bondage here and there.

His eyes cloud over as he thinks, and I wonder how many memories he's sifting through to find the winning one. As I look down at my own paper, I hit a blank. If I write something bland, I'll seem like someone who's never had dirty sex before. I probably haven't compared to him, but still...

Biting my lip, I scrawl threesome onto my page, even though I can't imagine Mark in bed with two other people. He seems the type to be thorough in everything he does, so the prospect of him splitting that attention between two parties is unlikely.

For the first time since we began the quiz, Mark looks unsure. He clears his throat and shifts his sitting position.

"Before I show you my answer," he begins, "you have to promise it stays between us."

My stomach somersaults. Wow. Is it illegal? No, can't be.

"Of course," I reply. "I kind of hoped that was an unspoken rule."

His head bobs in a crisp nod. "This should prove I'm playing an honest game."

He flips his sheet around and lays it flat on the coffee table. I lean closer to read his scruffy writing.

Just one word is scribbled across the page. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

***

This one turned into a very long scene, so the quiz plus the aftermath (😉) will span several chapters. We're therefore staying in March 2007 for a bit, despite my best intentions to keep this book neat with the chapters and timeframes!!