Page 69 of Practice Makes Perfect
“Linc…” I whisper, suddenly hyperconscious. “I probably smell sweaty from dancing…”
He laughs. “I spend half my waking hours in a locker room with a few dozen guys who smell far worse on their best day than you could on your worst…”
“OK…”
“Can I?” he asks, fingers toying with the hem of the sweatshirt.
“Yes,” I whisper, lifting my arms to help him.
He pulls it over my head, leaving me in just my black sports bra and leggings. His eyes darken as they travel over me, and theraw appreciation in his gaze makes me feel beautiful in a way I haven’t in years.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, his voice husky. His hands slide up my ribcage, caressing the sides of my breasts through my bra, and I arch into his touch.
He kisses me again, more deeply this time, and I grind against him instinctively. Through our clothes, I can feel him hardening beneath me, and the sensation sends a warm pulse between my legs.
As my initial nervousness about being on my period fades, desire takes over. His lips leave mine to trace a hot path down my throat. When he reaches the hollow at the base, he sucks gently, and I gasp at the sudden intensity.
“That feel good?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Yes,” I breathe, tilting my head to give him better access.
His hands slide up my back to the clasp of my sports bra. “May I?”
I nod, and with a deftness that speaks to his experience, he unclasps it in one smooth motion. As he eases the fabric away, cool air hits my exposed skin, making my nipples tighten even more.
When his mouth closes over one nipple, I cry out softly, anchoring my hands in his hair. He sucks gently, then more firmly when he hears my reaction, while his thumb circles the other nipple with just enough pressure to make me squirm.
I grind down against him again, searching for friction where I need it most. He responds by sliding his hands to my hips, guiding me into a slow, rhythmic movement that has me panting within seconds.
“Linc,” I gasp, “this feels so good, but…”
He immediately stops, looking up with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I assure him quickly. “Just… period… remember?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Do you have a tampon in?”
I nod, relieved at his matter-of-fact tone.
“Then we don’t have to worry.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “Is it OK if I touch you? Just on the outside. We can keep your underwear on.”
The consideration in his voice makes my heart flutter in a way that has nothing to do with physical attraction. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
His hand slides down my stomach and into the waistband of my leggings. He pauses when he reaches the edge of my underwear, looking up at me one more time.
“Still good?” he asks.
“Still good,” I confirm, my voice shaky with anticipation.
His fingers slide beneath the fabric, and when they make contact with my clit, I gasp. His touch is electric. He starts with gentle circles, watching my face intently as if cataloging every reaction.
“How’s that?” he asks, adjusting the pressure slightly.
“Perfect,” I breathe, my hips moving in time with his fingers.
He increases his pace gradually, finding a rhythm that has me clutching at his shoulders. His other hand moves to my breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. The dual sensations are overwhelming, and I feel myself building.
“I love watching you like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal.
