Quan’s eyebrows rose even further before his expression went blank. “Maybe that’s it, then. Did she, you know, did she like it?”
“Yeah, that part was easy.”
“Really,” Quan said in a dry tone. “Your first time out the gate.”
“Yeah.”
Quan gave Khai a skeptical look. “What are you, the King Midas of Orgasms? I’ve been perfecting my craft since eighth grade, and sometimes I still don’t know what I’m doing down there. Women are complicated.”
“What craft? It’s sex. You put bodies together, and shit happens. It’s like the nature channel.” He did bad on the emotional front, but he’d gotten this part right, dammit.
“I’m pretty sure we’ve figured out the problem,” Quan said.
Khai shoved his hands into his pockets. “Tell me, then.” He was ninety-nine percent certain Quan was wrong.
“How do you know she came?”
The elevator dinged, and as they walked down a narrow hallway toward Quan’s place, Khai cleared his throat. “She made sounds. Those kinds of sounds.” Really good sounds.
“Anything else?” Quan stopped at his door and turned the key in the lock.
“What else is there?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, come in and sit down.” Quan opened the door to his bachelor pad.
Khai stepped inside carefully, half convinced he’d find sperm on the walls, but it was mostly neat. There was definitely no sperm. That he could see. If you analyzed the black leather couches closely, who knew what you’d find. He didn’t take his shoes off before he followed Quan to his kitchen.
“Have a seat. I need to fix my hangover.” Quan puttered around his modern kitchen, breaking eggs into a blender and adding orange juice. Once he’d blended the mixture to a froth, he poured it into an old giant Slurpee cup and joined Khai at the kitchen table. “Want some?” He held it out toward Khai.
Khai grimaced. “No, thanks. Don’t you have Advil?”
“Nah, ran out.” Quan chugged half of his concoction, set the cup down, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, back to the sex. My guess is she didn’t orgasm.”
“What are the symptoms for orgasm?”
Quan burst out laughing and drank more of his orange hangover cure. “Only you would talk about orgasming like it was a sickness.”
Khai drummed his fingers on the table. “Can you just get on with it?”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Quan took a deep breath before he chuckled, shook his head, and scratched at the morning scruff on his jaw. “First, she—wait, wouldn’t it be awesome if Michael were here? He’s a pro at this shit. I know, let’s call him.”
“What? No. Can’t you just tell me?”
Quan waved his fingers toward Khai’s pockets. “Get your phone out and call him. He can verify what I say, so you can stop looking at me like I’m cheating off someone’s test answers.”
“You call him.”
“He won’t pick up if I call him. It’s Sunday and not even eight yet. If you call him, he’ll think it’s an emergency. You never call anyone.”
Rolling his eyes, Khai fished his phone out, dialed his cousin, and hit the speaker button. There was no way in hell he was doing all the talking alone.
Michael picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey, Khai, how’s it going?”
Khai held the phone toward his brother, and Quan said, “Michael, we need your expertise. It’s about orgasms.”