Free Making Sense by Serenity Woods

several months before she slept with them. She’d enjoyed their time together, and they’d parted amicably, remaining friends. Her whole life was functional and reasonable.
    And she was sick of it.
    But how did she stop being functional and reasonable? Being impulsive took courage, and taking risks meant allowing for the possibility of failure. That word didn’t enter Freya’s vocabulary. She calculated the outcome of every venture, making sure she didn’t attempt it until she was certain to succeed. The thought of doing something that held the risk of turning into a catastrophe made her go cold.
    And yet, there was also something immensely appealing about putting herself out there, instead of weighing and assessing the dangers until she was sure there weren’t any. The whisky had loosened her inhibitions, as a rugby player wearing an unfamiliar suit might loosen his tie, and she suddenly felt bold and daring.  
    She wasn’t particularly experienced in the bedroom. She knew where everything went—she thought she had a good enough idea of how to pleasure a man, how to turn him on. Nate fancied her—she could tell that from his half-smile as he watched her now, trying not to look at the way her nipples were showing through her shirt or the shine of her thighs as the lightning lit up the room briefly. She remembered the press of his hips against her when they kissed, and the way he’d pushed her up against the wall. He wanted her.  
    And she wanted him, badly. He embodied freedom and danger, the thrill of the unknown. Having sex with him would be like diving off a waterfall or standing up to speak like Ash did in front of an audience of a thousand people. She wanted that thrill, that excitement she’d experienced so little in her life. The truth was that Freya was worried she was dull. Boring. She liked her quiet, organised life, but she was extremely aware it might appear lacklustre and uninspiring to some. Deep down, she felt she was spontaneous and impulsive, but she never seemed to bring it to fruition. She was tired of being Jane Austen. She wanted to be The Story of O , or Lady Chatterley’s Lover . She longed for her exploits to make others gasp.
    She finished off her drink and put her glass on a nearby table. Her hair had already partly dried in the warm and sultry room, and she ran her fingers through it, loosening the stiff strands before turning to him. “Nate?”
    “Hmm?”
    Here goes. Nothing ventured… She laid her hands lightly on his chest. “How do you feel about some hot, fast, uncomplicated sex?”
    His eyes widened, and he stared at her.
    “Don’t say you didn’t see that coming,” she said, heart pounding. “I’m standing here without any underwear having drunk several glasses of whisky on an empty stomach.”
    “Even more reason for me to get you something to eat.” He put down his own glass. “Come on.”
    She braced herself against his chest as he went to walk past her. “Nate. I’m serious.”
    He met her gaze, exasperated. “You don’t mean that.”
    “Clearly, you don’t know me at all. I never say anything I don’t mean.”
    “Freya…”
    “Are you really going to turn me down?” She brushed her hands lightly across his chest, touching his nipples through the T-shirt. “Because I know you want me.”
    He caught her hands in his, pulled them away. “You don’t want to have sex with me.”
    “I really do.” She tried to pull her hands free, but his grip on hers was tight.
    “Freya…”
    “Nate?”
    “I don’t have sex with nice girls.” His eyes were dark.
    “I don’t want to be a nice girl.” She’d meant it to sound sassy and winced as it came out somewhat pathetic.
    He turned her so her back was to the window and placed his hands either side of her on the glass. “Sweetheart, you really don’t want to get involved with me. I don’t bring flowers, I don’t take women to dinner, I don’t shower them with compliments, watch rainbows with them,