Page 33 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

twenty

EM

I’ve changed my sheets twice in the last hour.

The first set—burgundy jersey knit—looked too much like I was trying to create some kind of bordello ambiance.

The second set—crisp white cotton—gave off serious hospital vibes.

I’ve finally settled on my trusty navy-blue sheets, which hopefully convey “I’m a normal human who sleeps in a normal bed” vibes.

Focus, Amélie.

I straighten a textbook on my desk for the fourteenth time.

My dorm room has never been this clean. Even the bathroom grout is sparkling, courtesy of an old toothbrush and my 3 a.m. anxiety, my brain having decided that scrubbing was less stressful than lying in bed imagining all the ways tonight could go wrong.

Or right.

Definitely wrong.

Maybe right?

I check my phone: 6:52 p.m. Linc will be here in eight minutes, unless he’s early again, which is simultaneously infuriating and endearing. Eight minutes to fret, to scan for any stray lint, and to check my reflection in the mirror one last time for the thirtieth time.

Since my discussion with my grandmother, it feels like this night carries way more significance than before. Under the influence of wine, delicious biscuits and seventy-five years of experience, I finally admitted my feelings. Now, I’ve decided I won’t hide from them—in my head, at least.

It’s not that I’m planning to dramatically confess my feelings the moment he walks through the door. That would violate approximately seven different social norms—not to mention rule three—and possibly cause me to erupt in spontaneous combustion.

But I can’t hide from these feelings.

So I’m planning to… test the waters? Look for signs that he might be feeling something beyond our educational arrangement? A lingering glance, perhaps. A touch that lasts longer than strictly necessary. The kind of evidence that would hold up in the court of “oh my god, does he like me?”

Of course, there’s the very real possibility that I’m projecting. That I’ve manufactured an entire romantic narrative in my head while he’s just thinking about hockey plays and protein shakes, and thinking that what we’ve got is nothing more than an enjoyable, casual fuck.

And if I’ve got it wrong. Oh god .

What if he doesn’t feel the same?

What if he ends our arrangement?

My mind has spent been hammering me with every possible outcome.

So small steps it is.

If I sense there’s something there, I can pursue it.

And, if not, we can keep things strictly to the lessons.

The reflection staring back at me in the mirror almost believes that’s possible.

I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time on my appearance. My makeup is “natural”—requiring only forty-five minutes. My hair is down in loose waves that took an hour to look effortlessly tousled. I’m wearing my good underwear—a matching French set?—

The knock at my door stops my brain for a second, then reboots it, sending my pulse into hummingbird territory. Well, it’s the moment of truth. I wait three seconds—a perfectly calculated delay to seem casual—before walking over to the door and opening it.

And there he is, with the absolute nerve to stand there looking like that .

Linc is wearing dark jeans that fit his thighs in ways that should be criminal and a simple green t-shirt that hugs his chest like I want to. His hair is freshly buzzed on the sides and there’s a tiny nick near his jawline where he must have cut himself shaving.

“Hey,” he says, and even that one syllable has my stomach doing something that feels like a pirouette but with less grace and more chaos.

“Hey yourself,” I respond, then immediately cringe, stepping aside to let him in. “Come on in.”

He walks into my dorm with an easy confidence that both impresses and irritates me. Why does he get to be so composed while I’m internally drafting and redrafting every word before it leaves my mouth, then wishing I had an editor and a proofreader…

“Your place looks different,” he says, scanning the room.

“Different how?”

“Cleaner.” A smile tugs at his lips. “Wait, did you alphabetize your books?”

“No,” I lie. “They’re also organized by subject, size, and color.”

His gaze catches on the madeleines sitting on a plate on my desk. “You bake?”

“My grandmother did. She insisted I bring some to share.”

Linc picks one up, examines it, then takes a bite. His expression immediately shifts from curiosity to what can only be described as culinary bliss, and before long, he’s onto his second.

“Holy shit, these are good,” he says.

“Say that to my grandmother,” I laugh. “She’ll adopt you on the spot.”

“I’d let her.” He finishes the madeleine, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “So…”

“So…” I echo.

It’s suddenly very warm in here.

“How was your week?” I ask, desperate to delay tonight’s lesson.

“Good. Busy with practice.” He follows me into my bedroom and sits on the edge of my bed, the navy sheets apparently passing whatever test he was consciously or unconsciously giving them. “Coach has been riding us hard since the win against Brown.”

“You were really good.” I try to sound casual, like I just happened to be passing and decided to spend two hours watching him.

His eyes find mine. “Thanks for coming. It was… nice to see a friendly face in the crowd.”

Just a friendly face?

I suppress a twinge of disappointment.

What was I expecting?

I saw you wearing my jersey and it made me realize we’re destined to be together ?

“I might come to another game,” I offer. “If you don’t mind.”

“I’d like that,” he says, studying me with an intensity makes my skin prickle.

An awkward silence stretches between us, filled with all the things I want to say but can’t.

I perch on my desk chair, nervously toying with the edge of my sleeve.

This feels a hundred times more charged and awkward than our first few lessons, and I’m hoping my feelings don’t derail the whole thing.

“So, about tonight…” he finally says.

My stomach does another one of those acrobatic routines. “Yes?”

“I was thinking we could try something a little different,” he says.

“Different how?” My voice comes out higher than intended.

“I thought we could show each other what we like when we’re alone.”

“You mean like… masturbation?” The word feels clumsy in my mouth.

He nods. “It’s the best way to learn what someone enjoys—seeing how they touch themselves. Plus, it’s a level of intimacy that builds trust.”

Oh god. Oh god . He wants me to touch myself in front of him?

While he watches?

Oh GOD .

“Is that something you’d be comfortable with?” he asks when I don’t immediately respond. And don’t worry, it isn’t a performance. It’s about trust and learning. If at any point you want to stop, we stop. This only works if you’re comfortable.”

The sincerity in his eyes makes my chest ache. It would be so much easier if he were just some arrogant jock looking to add another conquest to his list. Instead, he’s… this. Thoughtful. Patient. Caring. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m falling for him.

“OK,” I say, squeezing his hand. “I trust you.”

He pats the space next to him on the bed. “Come sit with me.”

I obey—though “obey” sounds so passive, and there’s nothing passive about the way my body practically launches itself toward him. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the dip in the mattress as I sit, the warmth radiating from his body, and his scent that makes me want to sniff him like a bloodhound.

“I’ll go first,” he offers, his voice kind. “That way you can see there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

I attempt an appreciative smile that probably looks more like I’m experiencing minor mental distress. “Thanks.”

With casual grace—how does he make everything look so easy?—Linc pulls his shirt over his head, and I’m momentarily distracted by the flex of his abs. I’d like to think I’m evolving past the stage where the sight of his bare chest makes me forget the English language, but apparently not.

“Like what you see?” he teases, catching me staring.

“Objectively speaking, you have a well-maintained physique,” I reply, aiming for Detached Scientific Observer but achieving Thirsting Academic.

He chuckles, standing to remove his jeans. “Just wait.”

Last time we were together like this, I was too nervous to really look at him.

Now, I’m drinking in every detail like a woman who’s been wandering the desert of celibacy for years—which, technically, I have.

His thighs are muscular from hockey, his stomach taut, and then he slides down his boxer briefs…

Oh. Wow .

Was he this… big… last time?

How did I not commit every inch (and there are quite a few) to memory?

“You’re staring again,” he says, voice husky as he settles back on the bed.

“It’s huge ,” I blurt, before my brain’s quality control department can intervene.

A surprised laugh escapes him. “Thanks for the ego boost.”

“You don’t need any boost.”

He grabs my hand. “By the time we have sex, you’ll be more than ready for me.”

The promise in his voice sends a pulse of heat between my legs. A few weeks ago, the idea of sex would have had me hyperventilating into a paper bag. Now, I find myself… looking forward to it?

Linc sits back against my pillows, his legs stretched out comfortably. He takes himself in hand with practiced ease, and I watch, transfixed, as he begins to stroke himself slowly.

“When I’m alone,” he explains, voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes my insides quiver, “I’m not nearly as gentle with it.”

I swallow, dry-mouthed. “No?”

“No. But what’s most important is the pressure.” He demonstrates with a twist of his hand from base to tip.

My pulse quickens as he continues to pump his shaft, thumb occasionally swiping over the head to collect the moisture beading there. The sight is mesmerizing—his strong hand working himself with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he likes.