Page 81 of Practice Makes Perfect
“You don’t needanyboost.”
He grabs my hand. “By the time we have sex, you’ll be more than ready for me.”
The promise in his voice sends a pulse of heat between my legs. A few weeks ago, the idea of sex would have had me hyperventilating into a paper bag. Now, I find myself… looking forward to it?
Linc sits back against my pillows, his legs stretched out comfortably. He takes himself in hand with practiced ease, and I watch, transfixed, as he begins to stroke himself slowly.
“When I’m alone,” he explains, voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes my insides quiver, “I’m not nearly as gentle with it.”
I swallow, dry-mouthed. “No?”
“No. But what’s most important is the pressure.” He demonstrates with a twist of his hand from base to tip.
My pulse quickens as he continues to pump his shaft, thumb occasionally swiping over the head to collect the moisture beading there. The sight is mesmerizing—his strong hand working himself with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he likes.
I watch, captivated by the rhythm of his movements, the flex of his forearm muscles, the way his abs tighten slightly with each stroke. There’s something profoundly intimate about watching someone touch themselves—like being let in on a secret that’s usually kept behind closed doors.
But this lesson feels different after my grandmother’s revelations. Before, I could maintain the illusion that this was purely educational—a clinical exchange of information. Now, I recognize it for what it truly is: an intimacy that requires trust, vulnerability, and a connection that transcends the physical.
This isn’t just instruction anymore.
I wonder if he can see the change in me, if my eyes betray my emotions I’m trying to conceal beneath the veneer of our arrangement.
“Your turn,” he says, mercifully pausing his demonstration before I explode. “Only if you’re comfortable, though.”
I hesitate. This progress feels bittersweet now. I’m healing from Derek’s damage, becoming comfortable with intimacy again, but at the same time my grandmother’s words echo: honesty is freedom. Yet I remain trapped in silence, ready to admit my feelings to myself, but not share them with him.
“We can stop,” Linc offers, misinterpreting my hesitation. “There’s no pressure at all, Em.”
“No, I want to,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “It’s just… I’ve never done this in front of anyone before.”
His smile is gentle. “I’m honored to be the first.”
That smile—the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look softer, less like a campus hockey star and more like someone who might actually care about me beyond this arrangement—nearly undoes me. It’s the kind of smile that makes me want to confess everything.
I’m falling for you.
This isn’t just about sex for me anymore.
I think about you constantly.
Instead, I take a deep breath and pull my shirt over my head.
My bra comes next.
Then jeans.
I briefly consider leaving my panties on, but honestly, what’s the point? If I’m going to bare my soul—metaphorically—I might as well bare everything else. So I shimmy out of my underwear in one quick motion before I lose my nerve.
Linc’s eyes darken as they sweep over my naked body, and there’s something intoxicating about the hunger I see there. It makes me feel powerful. Desired. Worthy.
“So,” I say, trying for casual despite being completely nude, “this is me, like it or not.”
Linc seems to miss my hidden meaning, but he reaches out to run a finger along my arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. “Perfect.”
I take a deep breath. “OK, um, so when I touch myself, I…” Why is this so difficult to say? I’ve had his tongue between my legs, for crying out loud.
“Take your time,” he says gently. “Or you can just show me.”
