Page 13 of Practice Makes Perfect
“You’re full of surprises,” he murmurs, using my full name in a way that makes it sound like a caress.
I’m too caught up in sensation to formulate a clever response. All I can think about is how much I want his mouth back on mine, how perfectly our bodies fit together, how the wall behind me is the only thing keeping me upright.
“Want to go back in?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.
“In your mouth?” I whisper.
“I meant inside the bar.” He laughs.
“Not really,” I admit.
“Where, then?”
The question is direct but his tone is gentle, giving me space to back out. But, unlike earlier when I hesitated about talking to him at the bar, I don’t surprise myself with my answer this time. I’ve spent too long hiding from what I want, and right now, I want Linc.
“Your place?” I say simply.
He nods, and holds out his hand.
And I take it.
As we start to walk, I fish my phone out of my pocket with my free hand and quickly text Lea:
Going to Linc’s. Don’t wait up.
Her response comes immediately:
OK, but only do what you’re comfortable with!
I smile at my friend’s concern, but I don’t respond. I know Lea wants the best for me, and Ialsoknow Louis is going tokillme for not letting him screen Linc. But, looking up at Linc, his expression a mixture of desire and something softer, I don’t care.
As we walk hand in hand down the dimly lit side street that leads toward off-campus housing, I can’t help wondering if this is a mistake. Not because I don’t want this—God knows I do—but because wanting something doesn’t necessarily mean you’re ready for it.
But then Linc squeezes my hand and gives me that half-smile that does ridiculous things to my insides, and I push my doubts aside. For once in my life, I’m not going to overthink this. I’m not going to let fear decide for me. Tonight, I’m choosing what I want.
And right now, what I want is Lincoln Garcia.
four
LINC
I insertmy key in the door lock and pause for a second, doing a mental stocktake of the state of the apartment. The last time I had a woman over was two weeks ago—some biochem major whose name started with an M. Melissa? Melanie? The fact that I can’t remember probably says something unflattering about me.
But Em is different.
I know her name. I’ve known it since she corrected our stats professor last semester and made him recalculate the entire sample variance problem he’d gotten wrong. She’d been so matter-of-fact about it, not even a hint of smugness, just confidence in her competence.
And, ever since I’ve known her and her name, I’ve wanted her in my bed.
I push the door open, suddenly realizing that Mike might be home. Not that bringing a girl back would technically be a problem—I’ve done it plenty since moving in with him. But Mike’s mood lately has been as sunny as an ice rink in February, and I don’t want his cloud of gloom dampening whatever this is.
My eyes immediately go to the key bowl on the side table. No keys. I scan the floor where Mike normally kicks off his shoes after practice. No shoes. Relief washes over mebecause, apparently, the walking downer decided to actually go somewhere tonight.
I lead Em inside by the hand, flipping on the light with my other one. “Home sweet dorm upgrade.”
“Nice place,” she says, looking around. “Definitely beats sharing a bathroom with ten other people.”
“At least Hughes Hall has bathrooms built before 1930…” I grin. “My old frat house… did not…”
