Page 28 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
Linc doesn’t even blink. “Oh. Do you need anything? Heating pad? Ibuprofen?” He pauses, then adds with complete seriousness: “Ice cream?”
The knot in my chest loosens. “I’m all stocked up,” I say, genuinely touched by his reaction. “Though I wish I’d grabbed some chips. I always crave salty stuff.”
His mouth quirks into a half-smile as he reaches for his backpack and pulls out a familiar bag. “You mean like these?”
They’re the exact chips I was buying at 7-Eleven the night we ran into each other. “You remembered,” I say, completely stunned.
“Of course I did.” He hands me the bag. “I bought them as we were texting earlier… and I just realized how weird that sounds.”
I take the chips, our fingers brushing in a way that sends tingles up my arm despite the utterly unsexy nature of the exchange. “That’s… really sweet.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says with a wink. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
I laugh, tearing open the bag. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
We settle back into watching the movie, munching on chips as the French melodrama unfolds on screen.
The main character is now crying in the rain—because of course she is—while her lover chases after her through the streets of Paris.
It’s all very dramatic and clichéd, but somehow still captivating.
I sneak a glance at Linc, expecting to see him either engaged with the film or completely zoned out. Instead, his brow is furrowed, like he’s thinking about something while simultaneously his eyes are distant—clearly not taking in a single frame of the movie.
“Hey,” I nudge his arm gently. “You don’t like the movie?”
“What?” He blinks, coming back to the present. “No, it’s fine.”
“You just seem… distracted.”
“Sorry,” he says, shifting slightly on the couch. “Just thinking.”
“About Mike or hockey?” I ask, already feeling a stab of sympathy. After everything he just shared, I wouldn’t blame him if he couldn’t relax his mind.
I know that feeling.
“No,” he says, then gives me an unreadable look. “Actually, I was thinking about… something else.”
“If it’s about my period, I promise it’s not contagious,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
His lips curve into a smile, but there’s something heated in his gaze that melts me. “I wasn’t grossed out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh, good,” I say, relieved.
Then he grins. “In fact,
this is kind of the perfect opportunity for a lesson.”
My heart suddenly pounds against my ribs. “A lesson?” My voice comes out embarrassingly high. “What kind of lesson?”
He leans closer, bringing his mouth to my ear. “A lesson in hooking up on your period, so you’re prepared and know your options.”
The warmth of his breath sends a cascade of shivers down my neck, and I freeze, not sure how to respond. Is he suggesting…?
“I’m up for it if you are,” he murmurs, and the deep timbre of his voice vibrates through me like a bass line.
Words fail me completely, so I just nod, a quick jerky movement that probably makes me look like one of those dashboard bobblehead dolls.
That’s all the encouragement he needs. In one fluid motion, he moves to me, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that burns away any awkwardness.
His hands grip my hips, sliding me onto his lap so I’m straddling him—the position sending a jolt of pleasure through my core despite the thin barrier of our clothes.
“Is this OK?” he asks against my lips.
“Very OK,” I breathe, threading my fingers through his hair.
His kisses are confident but not demanding, letting me set the pace as our mouths move together. When his tongue teases the seam of my lips, I open for him eagerly, letting out a small moan as the kiss deepens.
Heat builds steadily in my belly as Linc’s hands roam from my hips to my waist, then higher, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. Even through my bra and his sweatshirt, the touch makes my nipples tighten.
“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 the raw 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.
His words push me even closer, and when he leans up to capture my mouth in another kiss, I moan against his lips. His fingers move faster, more insistent, and suddenly I’m there—trembling and crying out as pleasure crashes through me.
“That’s it,” he encourages, slowing his movements but not stopping, drawing out the waves of my orgasm until I slump against him, breathless and boneless.
For a long moment, I just rest my forehead against his, trying to catch my breath. His arousal is still evident beneath me, and when I shift slightly, he lets out a small groan.
“Do you want me to…” I trail off, not entirely sure what I’m offering but knowing I want to reciprocate somehow.
“You don’t have to,” he says immediately. “Making you feel good is enough for me.”
“But I want to,” I insist, surprising myself with my boldness. “I want to watch you.”
His eyes darken at my words. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“OK,” he grins.
He shifts me gently off his lap and onto the couch beside him, then unbuttons his jeans. My heart races as he pulls himself free, already hard and impressive. He wraps his hand around himself, then looks at me.
“Is this OK?” he asks.
I nod, transfixed by the sight. “More than OK.”
As he strokes himself, his eyes never leave mine, and the intimacy of the moment steals my breath. It’s raw, real. I feel a strange surge of power knowing that I’m the one he’s thinking about, the one making his breathing ragged.
“Em,” he groans, his pace increasing. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
I lean forward and kiss him, swallowing his moans as his movements become more urgent. His thighs tense beneath my hand, and I know he’s close to exploding.
“I’m going to—” he starts…
… and, without thinking, I slide down to position myself between his legs.
I take him in my mouth only a second before he comes, but as I look up at his face, I can see his eyes blown wide with shock and pleasure. A moment later, he groans, and explodes in my mouth.
It’s a strange challenge, wanting to catch it all in my mouth, and drink it all down. It’s salty and not particularly pleasant, but the shocked pleasure on his face makes it entirely worth it.
“Holy shit,” he breathes as I sit back up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “That was… surprising.”
“Good surprising or bad surprising?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious, and hoping I haven’t screwed things up with him.
“Definitely good.” He pulls me into a lazy kiss, apparently unconcerned about tasting himself on my lips. “But I thought oral sex wasn’t until lesson five.”
“Consider it extra credit,” I reply, making him laugh.
He puts an arm around me and pulls me close, and I try not to think about how right it feels to be in his arms like this. How comfortable. How natural. This is just an arrangement, I remind myself firmly. Not real.
But as we sit there, his heartbeat steady against my back, his warmth enveloping me, I find it increasingly difficult to believe my own lie.