Page 82 of Practice Makes Perfect
Right. Just show him. I can do that.
I slowly ease myself back against the pillows, mirroring his earlier position. With deliberate movements, I slide my hand down between my legs, spreading myself with two fingers before lightly—very lightly—touching my clit.
“I need almost no pressure,” I explain, my breathing already hitching a little.
I demonstrate, barely grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves with my fingertip, moving in tiny circles that send sparks of pleasure through me. It’s strange, how easily I can forget the awkwardness when I focus on the sensations.
“That’s different from me,” Linc observes, watching. “I need a lot of pressure.”
“I noticed,” I say, continuing my gentle movements. “We’re opposites that way.”
The contrast strikes me as a perfect metaphor for our entire situation. I’m tiptoeing around my feelings for him with the lightest possible touch, afraid to apply too much pressure, while he… well, he’s direct and firm, keeping things squarely within the boundaries of our arrangement.
Or is he?
I study his face as he watches me touch myself. There’s the obvious desire—the dilated pupils, the slightly parted lips—but is there something more? A softness around his eyes, perhaps?A tenderness in the way he looks at me that goes beyond mere physical attraction?
Or am I just seeing what I want to see?
“Can I try?” he asks, his voice husky.
My pulse spikes. “Yes.”
I move my hand away, trembling slightly as his thumb moves to my clit, and although he’s clearly trying to be gentle, the pressure is too much. I tense, but I don’t say anything. His face is a mask of concentration, so earnest and focused on making me feel good that I can’t bring myself to criticize his technique.
But Linc notices.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, immediately stilling his hand. “Too much?”
“A little,” I admit, biting my lip.
“Tell me,” he says. “Always tell me what you need?—”
I need you, I think, but don’t say it.
He continues. “—because that’s the point. I want to make you feel good?—”
Mission accomplished!
“—and any guy worth dating would want the same.”
Dating.
There’s that word again.
Not “arrangement” or “lesson,” but “dating.” My heart seizes on this slip, a scrap of evidence to add to my growing collection. Does it mean something, or am I grasping at straws? Grandma Penelope would tell me to speak my truth, but the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I take his hand and guide it, showing him exactly how I like to be touched. “Like this,” I whisper. “Just barely there. And if you could stroke along here too…” I guide his fingers to slide along my slit while his thumb continues its featherlight circles.
The difference is immediate.
Pleasure blooms through me, and I can’t hold back a soft moan. His fingers move with perfect precision, following my guidance. It feels incredible, and I find myself arching into his touch. There’s something about the way he touches me—with such care and attention—that makes me want to surrender completely.
“Yes,” I breathe. “That’s… that’s perfect.”
And it is. His fingers find a rhythm that has me gasping, the tension building inside me like a spring winding tighter and tighter. I close my eyes, lost in the sensation, aware of nothing but the points where his skin meets mine and the fire he’s stoking inside me.
“Look at me,” he commands softly. “I want to see you.”
