Page 80 of Practice Makes Perfect
“I’d like that,” he says, studying me with an intensity makes my skin prickle.
An awkward silence stretches between us, filled with all the things I want to say but can’t. I perch on my desk chair,nervously toying with the edge of my sleeve. This feels a hundred times more charged and awkward than our first few lessons, and I’m hoping my feelings don’t derail the whole thing.
“So, about tonight…” he finally says.
My stomach does another one of those acrobatic routines. “Yes?”
“I was thinking we could try something a little different,” he says.
“Different how?” My voice comes out higher than intended.
“I thought we could show each other what we like when we’re alone.”
“You mean like… masturbation?” The word feels clumsy in my mouth.
He nods. “It’s the best way to learn what someone enjoys—seeing how they touch themselves. Plus, it’s a level of intimacy that builds trust.”
Oh god.Oh god. He wants me to touch myself in front of him?
While he watches?
OhGOD.
“Is that something you’d be comfortable with?” he asks when I don’t immediately respond. And don’t worry, it isn’t a performance. It’s about trust and learning. If at any point you want to stop, we stop. This only works if you’re comfortable.”
The sincerity in his eyes makes my chest ache. It would be so much easier if he were just some arrogant jock looking to add another conquest to his list. Instead, he’s… this. Thoughtful. Patient. Caring. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m falling for him.
“OK,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I trust you.”
He pats the space next to him on the bed. “Come sit with me.”
I obey—though “obey” sounds so passive, and there’s nothing passive about the way my body practically launches itself towardhim. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the dip in the mattress as I sit, the warmth radiating from his body, and his scent that makes me want to sniff him like a bloodhound.
“I’ll go first,” he offers, his voice kind. “That way you can see there’s nothing to be nervous about.”
I attempt an appreciative smile that probably looks more like I’m experiencing minor mental distress. “Thanks.”
With casual grace—how does he makeeverythinglook so easy?—Linc pulls his shirt over his head, and I’m momentarily distracted by the flex of his abs. I’d like to think I’m evolving past the stage where the sight of his bare chest makes me forget the English language, but apparently not.
“Like what you see?” he teases, catching me staring.
“Objectively speaking, you have a well-maintained physique,” I reply, aiming for Detached Scientific Observer but achieving Thirsting Academic.
He chuckles, standing to remove his jeans. “Just wait.”
Last time we were together like this, I was too nervous to really look at him. Now, I’m drinking in every detail like a woman who’s been wandering the desert of celibacy for years—which, technically, I have. His thighs are muscular from hockey, his stomach taut, and then he slides down his boxer briefs…
Oh.Wow.
Was he this… big… last time?
How did I not commit every inch (and there are quite a few) to memory?
“You’re staring again,” he says, voice husky as he settles back on the bed.
“It’shuge,” I blurt, before my brain’s quality control department can intervene.
A surprised laugh escapes him. “Thanks for the ego boost.”
