Teach Me to Feel by Tessa Kelwyn
Teach Me to Feel
Description
Lottie Webb has a problem. After her boyfriend dumps her-calling her cold, broken, incapable of feeling anything-she's forced to confront an uncomfortable truth: she's never had an orgasm. Not with him. Not with anyone. She's starting to believe she's simply wired wrong. Her best friend Gemma has a solution: a former gigolo named Oliver who specializes in helping women like her. One meeting. No expectations. What's the worst that could happen? Meanwhile, Lottie's mother drops a bombshell: she's getting married in a week to Richard Crawford, an old family friend. Lottie remembers Richard from childhood visits-and she remembers his son. A cruel boy who tormented her, hid her toys, and locked her in cupboards while he laughed at her tears. She hasn't seen either of them in fifteen years. One date with a stranger who makes her feel things she never thought possible. One week with a family she's been dreading. Lottie is about to discover that the universe has a wicked sense of humor-and some complications can't be undone.
Chapter 1
Apr 17, 2026
[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?"
I pull my hand back like the nightstand is on fire. "No. I mean, I wasn't going to actually look at it. It was just... reflex."
He rolls off me. The sudden absence of weight feels like relief, and that probably says everything that needs saying about this relationship.
"Reflex." He sits up, jaw clenching in the dim lamplight. "Your reflex during sex is to check your notifications."
"Alex, please—"
"Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you have any concept of what it's like to be with someone who would rather scroll through work emails than be present with you?"
He's standing now, pacing the small bedroom like a caged animal. I try not to look down his body. I sit up and pull the sheet around myself, though modesty feels ridiculous at this point.
"I'm sorry. That was thoughtless of me."
"Thoughtless." He laughs without humor. "That's the understatement of the century, Lottie. Two years. Two goddamn years I've been trying to connect with you, to make you feel something, anything at all."
The list begins. I knew it was coming—he's been building to this explosion for months.
"I've tried different positions. I've switched things up. I bought that vibrator—"
The vibrator he bought for my birthday last year. The one he used on me for approximately ninety seconds before deciding it was "taking too long" and pushing it aside. The one gathering dust in my nightstand because apparently my pleasure has an expiration timer.
"I've done candles, Lottie. Romantic candles."
One candle. Once. A vanilla-scented thing from the petrol station that he lit for ten minutes before complaining the smell gave him a headache.
"I even watched that video you sent me. The one about what women actually want."
The video was forty-five minutes long. He watched three, told me it was "too lecture-y," and suggested we "figure it out naturally." We never figured it out.
"And you just lie there, Charlotte. Every single time, you just lie there like you're waiting for a dental appointment to end."
"That's not fair—"
"It is." His voice cracks. "It absolutely is fair. You're cold. Completely unresponsive. There's something broken in you, something fundamentally wrong."
The word hits differently than the others. Broken. It sinks into my chest and finds a permanent home there, right next to every dark suspicion I've ever had about myself.
Because here's the thing: I know his list is pathetic. I know two positions and one abandoned vibrator does not constitute "trying everything." I know that when I showed him exactly where to touch me, he did it for thirty seconds before getting bored and going back to what worked for him.
But three boyfriends now. Three men who started with enthusiasm and ended with the same conclusion. At some point, the common denominator stops being coincidence.
"Maybe we just aren't compatible—" I start, but he's already spotted my phone on the nightstand, screen still glowing.
He grabs it before I can react. For one terrible second, I think he's going to read my messages, expose some imaginary affair that would at least explain my disconnect.
He throws it. Hard.
The phone hits the wall with a crack that makes me flinch. It falls to the floor, screen first, and I already know without looking that it's destroyed.
"Two years," he says quietly now, somehow worse than the shouting. "Two years and you'd rather touch that thing than touch me."
I don't have an answer. The worst part is that somewhere beneath his martyr act, there's a kernel of truth I can't escape: I really don't feel anything. Not with him. Not with anyone.
"You're frigid." He pulls on his jeans, movements jerky. "A frigid bitch incapable of feeling anything. Good luck finding someone willing to put up with that. Good luck finding anyone who wants to spend their life trying to warm up a corpse."
The bedroom door slams so hard the paintings rattle. A moment later, the front door follows. Then silence, and I'm entirely alone.
I stare at my phone on the floor. The screen is a spiderweb of cracks, the notification light still blinking weakly. That email from Patterson, probably.
Cold. Unresponsive. Broken. Frigid.
I pull my knees to my chest and press my forehead against them. The room still smells like his cologne. The sheets are tangled from his effort—though "effort" is generous. Five minutes of the same two positions, zero attention to anything that might actually work for me.
But maybe that's the point. Maybe I'm so broken that even a genuinely attentive partner wouldn't make a difference. Alex is lazy and selfish in bed—I've always known that—but David before him actually tried. He asked questions. He adjusted. He wanted to make it good for me.
And I still felt nothing.
So maybe Alex is right. Maybe the problem isn't his technique or his laughable definition of "trying everything." Maybe the problem is me.
The cracked phone blinks again. I should feel something—anger at the destruction, grief for a two-year relationship ending.
But there's just quiet. The same quiet that lives inside me during sex, during fights, during moments that should spark genuine emotion.
I cross the room and pick up the broken phone. The screen still works, barely visible through the fractures. Through the cracked glass, I can see it was just a calendar reminder.
Dentist appointment. Tomorrow at ten.
I almost laugh. Almost.
Instead, I sit on the cold floor and wonder if every man who's called me cold was right. If there's something fundamentally wrong with the wiring in my brain. If I'm destined to drift through relationships like a ghost, present in body but absent in every way that matters.
The silence has no answers. It never does.
Teach Me to Feel
30 Chapters
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