Page 61 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Not tonight.” I laugh. “But Sophia did inform me very seriously that her arabesque is better than mine because her leg goes ‘all the way to outer space.’”
Lea snorts. “Well, can’t argue with that logic.”
We chat for a while longer about nothing significant, but it seems to cheer Lea up. Eventually, Lea’s yawns become contagious, and we both decide to call it a night. As she disappears into her room, I stand in our tiny living area, suddenly feeling too wired to sleep despite my earlier exhaustion.
My body aches from teaching back-to-back classes, but my mind refuses to power down. I drag myself to my bedroom, strip off my dance clothes, and—after a quick shower—pull on my favorite sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that readsDance Like Nobody’s Watching.
I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling for approximately thirty seconds before the restlessness overwhelms me. With a groan, I sit up and reach for my planner from my nightstand. IfI can’t sleep, I might as well be productive and figure out my day tomorrow.
My planner is a masterpiece of color-coding and precision—each subject in a different highlighter shade, appointments underlined twice, deadlines circled in red. It’s the scaffolding that holds my chaotic brain together, a physical manifestation of the control I so desperately need.
Usually, organizing my schedule is therapeutic, like mental yoga, and it helps me get to sleep. Tonight, though, my pen hovers aimlessly over the page. I should be planning tomorrow’s study schedule, but instead I find myself absentmindedly doodling in the margin.
It takes me an embarrassingly long moment to realize I’ve written “Linc” in loopy cursive. Next to it, I’ve added a tiny hockey stick.
“Oh my god, what are you, twelve?” I mutter, frantically erasing the evidence of my momentary lapse into middle-school behavior. The erasure leaves a smudgy ghost behind, and I stare at it, feeling ridiculous and confused and somehow giddy all at once.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Our arrangement was meant to be clear-cut: physical intimacy with emotional distance. An exchange of pleasure for education. But somewhere between that first kiss at O’Neil’s and tonight’s car confession, things have gotten messy.
I close my planner with more force than necessary and toss it onto my desk. There’s no point pretending I’ll get anything productive done tonight.
I crawl under my comforter and pull it up to my chin, but sleep feels as distant as Antarctica. My thoughts keep circling back to Linc—the warmth in his eyes when I talked about dance, the barely contained rage when I mentioned Derek, the way his hand felt against mine.
“It’s because there’s an expiration date,” I whisper to my dark room. “That’s why it’s easier to share things with him.”
The realization clicks into place with surprising clarity. Maybe it’s easier to be vulnerable with someone when you know they’re temporary. When there’s no long-term risk involved. Our arrangement has a built-in end date—a finish line where we’ll high-five, thank each other, and go our separate ways.
No messy feelings. No complications. No potential for another Derek situation.
Except…
Except my body doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. I keep remembering how his eyes darkened when he looked at me. How his voice lowered and became husky when he said my name. The firm pressure of his hand on my waist during our lesson. How secure I felt despite my nervousness.
My skin heats at the memory, and I press my thighs together against the sudden ache there.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the images of Linc that keep flooding my mind, but they’re persistent. The way his lips parted slightly when I told him about my dancing. The strong line of his jaw. The veins in his forearms when he gripped the steering wheel.
Trying to get him out of my head, I flip onto my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. But the new position only makes things worse, creating pressure exactly where I’m trying not to feel anything. I flip back over with a frustrated groan.
It’s just physical attraction. Nothing more. Completely normal when you’re spending time with someone as objectively gorgeous as Linc. Add in his kindness, the way he listened to me tonight, and it’s a simple biological reaction. Chemistry, hormones, whatever.
I stare at the ceiling, hyperaware of every inch of my skin—like my nerve endings have all decided to work overtime. Thesoft brush of my t-shirt against my breasts. The slight weight of the comforter across my hips. The persistent throbbing between my legs that refuses to be ignored.
“Fine,” I whisper to my empty room. “Strictly biology.”
I slide my hand beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts, biting my lip as my fingers discover that I’m already embarrassingly wet. My eyes drift closed as I begin to circle my clit, slowly at first, then with increasing pressure.
In my mind, I’m back in Linc’s car, but this time, Louis doesn’t call. This time, when Linc leans toward me, his lips meet mine in a kiss that’s nothing like our lessons—it’s hungry, desperate, real.
My breath catches as I continue circling my clit with one finger, while with the other hand I slip a finger inside myself. The whole time, I imagine it’s Linc touching me, Linc’s fingers stretching me, Linc’s voice in my ear.
The scene shifts in my mind. We’re at our next lesson, but this time there are no boundaries, no hesitation. He lays me back on my bed, moving over me with purpose. His lips trail down my neck, across my collarbone, worshiping me.
“Is this OK?”he asks, always checking in, always making sure I’m comfortable.
“Yes,”I gasp, both in my fantasy and in reality, my fingers moving faster.
In my mind, he’s inside me now, filling me completely. The slight burn of stretching around him, his weight pressing me into the mattress, the look of wonder in his eyes as he moves—it’s all so vivid I could swear it’s real.
