Teach Me to Feel

[Lottie’s POV]

Alex is on top of me, and I'm thinking about spreadsheets.

Not in a sexy way. Not in any way that could be remotely construed as arousal. I'm literally running through the Henderson account reconciliation while my boyfriend of two years performs what I can only describe as aggressive hip circles.

He shifts angles. Tries something new—and by new, I mean he's switched from missionary to doggy style, which he considers the pinnacle of sexual innovation. His face is a mask of concentration, like a man defusing a bomb or assembling IKEA furniture without the instructions.

I feel absolutely nothing.

Well, that's not entirely true. I feel the weight of him pressing down. The scratch of his stubble against my shoulder. A mild discomfort in my left hip from the angle. But that electric thing everyone talks about? That building pleasure? Complete radio silence from my nervous system.

My mind drifts to work. Did I send that email to Patterson? The quarterly reports need reformatting. I definitely forgot to buy milk this morning. The ceiling above me could really use a fresh coat of paint—is that a water stain forming?

Alex switches back to missionary, apparently exhausting his entire repertoire. He's been jackhammering away for approximately four minutes now, which he probably considers generous. Two years of this, and I've become an expert at performing enthusiasm while mentally reorganizing my sock drawer.

I make an encouraging sound. He takes this as validation and redoubles his efforts.

The nightstand buzzes. My phone lights up with a notification—probably the office group chat losing its collective mind over something trivial. My hand moves toward it before my brain registers what I'm doing.

Alex stops. Completely stops.

"Did you just—" His voice is strangled. "Are you seriously checking your phone right now?"