The Girl's Guide to (Man)Hunting by Jessica Clare

her face toward his. “I’m just…I…”
    What could she tell him that he would possibly believe? The words froze in her mouth. His lips were inches away from hers and she longed to move her face closer to his, kiss him, feel that tongue stroke into her mouth in each conquering sweep. But his lips were firm and hard with anger. He wouldn’t kiss her back.
    “Then why don’t you tell me what’s going on? You’ve been after me ever since we laid eyes on each other, Miranda. And while I’m flattered, I have to wonder what your game is.”
    Shit. Well, okay, maybe she was being obvious—too obvious.
    She stared up at him, acutely aware of his hand still down her shorts. One nice squirm and she bet she could get his fingers to brush against her clit again—but how humiliating would that be? To try and get off against a man who wasn’t responding?
    So she took a deep breath and pulled her hand off of his, placing it on his T-shirt. That wasn’t much better—she could feel the finely corded ropes of muscle in his arms, and that made herthink of his hand down her shorts all over again. She was getting wetter just thinking about it. “I…”
    His fingers twitched against her clit, a little prompting motion, and he leaned in toward her, pinning her between his hard body and the tree. “Well?”
    “I…um…” She stalled, thinking hard. Then she bit her lip and confessed the truth—or at least part of it. “I can’t have an orgasm.”
    That was clearly not the answer he’d been expecting. He frowned down at her, and then his fingers gave a little swirling motion against her clit, eliciting another shuddering gasp from her. “Really? Because you seem to be responding to my touch pretty well.”
    His voice has dipped husky again, and she could have celebrated. He was listening to what she had to say. She fought a surge of excitement.
    Her fingers dug into his shoulders again and she gave a little trembling gasp when he slid a finger farther down, away from her clit. One thick digit brushed against the opening of her sex. Her knees threatened to collapse. “I can’t have an orgasm. With a man. In bed.”
    She was finding it hard to concentrate, his finger making small little circles against the opening of her sex, where she was wettest, tickling her in the most erotic fashion.
    He leaned even closer to her, her breasts pressing against his chest, and she lifted her face to his, startled to see his face looming so close that she could practically see beard stubble. His lips were close to her own. “Women, then?”
    “What? No.” Her hips rocked against his hand and she whimpered. It was so hard to concentrate.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean…I can’t shut my brain off during sex. And when I heard you were back in town, I remembered…”
    “That night in the closet?” he said huskily. “Back at graduation?”
    She flinched, thinking of the camera.
    “I remember that,” he said in a low rumble, and his mouth dipped against her neck, pressing a light kiss there. “How my hand had been on you, just like this, and you came all over my fingers.”
    She shuddered at that, pleasure washing over her. “I remember that,” she murmured.
    “You didn’t have a problem coming apart in my arms then,” he said, and his finger slipped deep inside her, giving a gentle thrust.
    “I know,” she said, her breathing coming hard and fast. She wanted to lift her leg around his hips, to grind her hips against his hand, to do…something. But she was pinned between him and the tree. “But that was a long time ago. I’ve had—trouble—since then.”
    Trouble was putting it mildly. More like counting tiles on the ceiling while her boyfriend of the moment tried unsuccessfully to elicit a reaction from her.
    His mouth brushed against her throat again, and she could feel the hint of beard stubble scrape her skin. “So you want to try again? With me?”
    She nodded. “See if it’s me, or if it’s