Page 96 of Practice Makes Perfect
“What lesson is this?” I ask, hating how breathy my voice sounds. “I don’t think it was on the syllabus…”
“The one about saying sorry for bailing on you.” His hands slide down to my waist. “And about hooking up in someone else’s bedroom.”
“And when exactly will I need that skill while dating?” I say, despite the fact that his touch is making coherent thought nearly impossible.
“You go to parties, don’t you?” His thumbs trace circles at my hipbones. “And when you’re dating someone, they’re going to want you alone. You’re irresistible.”
My breath catches in my throat. There’s an intensity in his gaze I’ve never seen before—something beyond desire, beyond the boundaries of our arrangement. It’s exactly what I’ve been longing to hear, what I’ve been imagining him saying in my most private thoughts.
But what does it mean coming from him?
Is this just part of the lesson, or is it something more?
Before I can form a question, his mouth captures mine again. At the same time, his hands slide down my body to the backs of my thighs, and in one fluid motion, he lifts me off my feet. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, and he carries me across the room.
And I feel like I’m floating.
He carries me to the bed, laying me down with a gentleness that contrasts with the urgency in his kisses. He braces himself above me, his arms on either side of my head, looking down at me with an expression that makes me feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful.
“I couldn’t stand watching that guy ogling you,” he says, his voice almost a growl.
Something in my chest flutters wildly at his words. “The soccer guy? Jake? He wasn’t?—”
“He was, but I can’t blame him,” Linc interrupts, tracing his finger along my collarbone. “Em, I’m sorry I ran out on you the other night.”
“That’s OK,” I say, even though it’s a lie. It confused me, and it still hurts a little bit.
“It’s not,” he says. “I was starting to feel something that I’m not sure you’re ready to deal with, but please know it was nothing wrong with you…”
My grandmother’s words about honesty being freedom echo in my head. I want to ask him what’s changed, why tonight feels so different from all our other encounters. But the questions stick in my throat, held back by fear—fear that naming this thing between us might break it.
Instead, I reach up and pull him down to me, letting my body say what my voice cannot. His weight settles over me, warm and solid and right. He kisses me deeply, his tongue sliding against mine, and I arch up into him, savoring the friction of his body against mine.
“Linc,” I whisper against his mouth, not sure what I’m asking for but knowing I need more.
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress higher. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down my neck.
“You,” I admit, the word escaping before I can catch it, although I realize it could be interpreted as either wanting sex or wanting more. “I want you.”
twenty-four
LINC
“I want you.”
The words hang between us, and I swear to God they bypass my brain and shoot straight to my dick. But my brain catches up real quick, and the questions start tumbling over each other. Does she mean she wants sex with me? Or has she caught feelings too?
Our bodies are still pressed together, her pinned beneath me on the bed. She’s breathing hard, her pulse visible in the delicate hollow of her throat. I can’t stop staring at that pulse point, watching it flutter like a trapped bird, desperate to touch?—
“Linc?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been silent too long. “Say that again.”
“I want you,” she repeats, and this time she caresses my face.
“What exactly does that mean, Em?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly rough. “Because if this is just about sex, about our arrangement?—”
“I don’t think it was ever just about sex,” she says, cutting me off. Her eyes are huge, dark pools pulling me under. “Not for me.”
