Page 24 of The Love Playbook

We make out in the middle of my room for several minutes, and I surrender myself to this moment, letting go of the idea of future possibilities and where I want this to go. Part of the lesson plan across the board is to let what happens develop organically. To let Jackson learn to go with the flow and follow his body’s desires.

Athletes are generally very physical and in tune with what their bodies want and need. I think that’s why so many of them are so casually sexual. It’s rare, in my experience, to find an athlete who’s as reserved as Jackson is. Obviously humanity is a beautiful spectrum of personalities and preferences. So to have someone athletic but also shy, hesitant to give in to his baser desires is surely not unheard of.

All athletes—especially by the time they reach college—have a strong work ethic and sense of discipline. They wouldn’t have made it this far without it. But with Jackson, it seems wider and deeper than most, spilling over into every facet of his life.

Is there anywhere he’s not disciplined and controlled? Can I breach that and help him let go—at least with me?

I feel like that’s a good goal for him as a person—to find somewhere he can let go, or someone to let go with. It can’t be healthy to be that tightly wound all the time.

His hands squeeze and shift, like he wants to roam more, but isn’t sure if he can or should.

Because I’m a problem solver, I take matters into my own hands, gripping his left wrist and guiding his hand to my right breast.

His breath hitches, and his muscles go rigid under my hand. But when I layer my fingers over his, squeezing my own breast with his hand, he sighs into my mouth, taking over, familiarizing himself with the weight and feel of my boob.

Satisfied he’s comfortable with that progression, I let him explore for a minute before I reach for his other wrist. This one I guide back and down until I wrap his fingers around my left ass cheek, firmly pressing his fingers into it so there’s no doubt I want him to grope my ass.

He makes a soft sound and retreats from our kiss, looking down into my face as he palms my boob and my butt. “Really?” he asks, almost like he can’t quite believe his luck.

“Yes,” I reassure him. “I like it when you touch me. Keep touching me. If you do anything I don’t like, I’ll let you know.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle. “What? I can just … touch you? However I want?”

“I mean … yeah? Pretty much. I mean, don’t like slap my face or anything.” The horror on his face is exactly why I didn’t specify that limit before. “But this?” I place my hand over his on my boob again and squeeze. “This kind of touching is just fine. Feel free to kiss me wherever you like, too.”

His eyes darken with lust at that invitation, and he looks around again.

Uh oh. Is he going to get distracted by my stuff and offer to organize it now since we made out for a minute?

But thankfully, he doesn’t. “Um …” He clears his throat. “Uh, could we, you know, um, get on your bed?”

Grinning, I step out of his hold, grab his hand, and tug him behind me to the bed. “Of course.”

I sit on the edge and pat the spot next to me. Normally I’d progress straight to lying down, but I feel like Jackson needs to get used to being on my bed at all first. And giving him some control over when and how we end up horizontal seems like the right call.

Eventually I’ll take over and do what I want to him—or at least as much as he’ll let me—but I want him to get comfortable taking the lead too. Or deciding how far he’s interested in going. He knows now that I’m fine with him touching me anywhere he wants. It’s up to him how he uses that freedom.

Clearing his throat again, his cheeks and ears tinged pink, he sits next to me on my quilted bedspread. He stares at the wall across from us, his hands dangling between his thighs.

I watch him, wondering if I’ve made an error in stopping what we were doing to talk at all. Should I have just moved us to the bed while we were kissing? Is he going to kiss me again, or will I have to take over to move this in the direction I know we both want?

Finally, he turns his head in my direction, his blush deepening.

“It’s just me, Jackson,” I whisper. “You already know I like you. You don’t need to be nervous.”

His soulful hazel eyes examine mine. “Do I know that you like me? Because it seems to me that you’re doing this more out of pity than like.”

My lips quirk in a smile. “Pity has nothing to do with it. I absolutely do like you. I don’t help people I don’t like. And I definitely don’t make out with people I don’t like and ask them to touch my boobs.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, his eyes dropping for a moment before meeting mine again. “I like you too, Autumn,” he whispers.

Maybe it’s because most of the guys I’ve hooked up with most recently called me anything other than my name—babe, baby, sweetness, one even used hotness,snort—that Jackson’s use of my name is so compelling. Or maybe it’s just Jackson.

His sweet declaration of like, which I know is only because I said I like him first, has tears prickling the backs of my eyes for some reason.

Because I have no interest in blubbering all over Jackson in general and especially now when we’re getting ready to fool around more, I blink the tears away and smile. “Kiss me, Jackson.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. Dipping his head, he brushes his lips across mine once and again before pressing more firmly, his hand coming up to cradle the back of my head as he seeks my tongue with his.

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