Page 34 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

I watch, captivated by the rhythm of his movements, the flex of his forearm muscles, the way his abs tighten slightly with each stroke. There’s something profoundly intimate about watching someone touch themselves—like being let in on a secret that’s usually kept behind closed doors.

But this lesson feels different after my grandmother’s revelations.

Before, I could maintain the illusion that this was purely educational—a clinical exchange of information.

Now, I recognize it for what it truly is: an intimacy that requires trust, vulnerability, and a connection that transcends the physical.

This isn’t just instruction anymore.

I wonder if he can see the change in me, if my eyes betray my emotions I’m trying to conceal beneath the veneer of our arrangement.

“Your turn,” he says, mercifully pausing his demonstration before I explode. “Only if you’re comfortable, though.”

I hesitate. This progress feels bittersweet now. I’m healing from Derek’s damage, becoming comfortable with intimacy again, but at the same time my grandmother’s words echo: honesty is freedom. Yet I remain trapped in silence, ready to admit my feelings to myself, but not share them with him.

“We can stop,” Linc offers, misinterpreting my hesitation. “There’s no pressure at all, Em.”

“No, I want to,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. “It’s just… I’ve never done this in front of anyone before.”

His smile is gentle. “I’m honored to be the first.”

That smile—the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look softer, less like a campus hockey star and more like someone who might actually care about me beyond this arrangement—nearly undoes me. It’s the kind of smile that makes me want to confess everything.

I’m falling for you.

This isn’t just about sex for me anymore.

I think about you constantly.

Instead, I take a deep breath and pull my shirt over my head.

My bra comes next.

Then jeans.

I briefly consider leaving my panties on, but honestly, what’s the point? If I’m going to bare my soul—metaphorically—I might as well bare everything else. So I shimmy out of my underwear in one quick motion before I lose my nerve.

Linc’s eyes darken as they sweep over my naked body, and there’s something intoxicating about the hunger I see there. It makes me feel powerful. Desired. Worthy.

“So,” I say, trying for casual despite being completely nude, “this is me, like it or not.”

Linc seems to miss my hidden meaning, but he reaches out to run a finger along my arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. “Perfect.”

I take a deep breath. “OK, um, so when I touch myself, I…” Why is this so difficult to say? I’ve had his tongue between my legs, for crying out loud.

“Take your time,” he says gently. “Or you can just show me.”

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.”

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. The connection is electric and intimate. And, in this moment, it feels like he can see straight through me, past all my defenses to the heart of who I am.

The pleasure crests suddenly, washing over me in waves that leave me breathless and trembling. I cry out, my body arching off the bed, my hands clutching at the sheets.

Linc watches me with an expression of awe and satisfaction, his fingers continuing their gentle movements until the aftershocks subside. And as I come back to myself, I find him watching me with a smile that makes my heart ache.

“That was beautiful,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face with tender fingers.

I struggle to find words, my brain still fuzzy with the pleasure. “That was… wow.”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that wraps around me like a blanket. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

In the aftermath, my defenses are completely down. My body feels like melted butter—warm, soft, a little salty from exertion. The confession sits right in my throat, almost painful in its need to be spoken.

I think I’m falling for you.

The words form in my mind with startling clarity, ready to leap from my tongue before I can apply any sort of filter. Thankfully, a moment before I blurt it out, I think of something else that needs saying first.

“Should I… um, make you come too?” I ask, gesturing toward his still very evident arousal.

Something shifts in his expression—a subtle tightening around his eyes, a slight dimming of that brilliant smile. It’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.

“We can work on that next time,” he says, his voice oddly formal as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Tonight was about you learning what you like.”

“Oh.” The single syllable hangs awkwardly between us. “Are you sure? Because I’d really like to?—”

“I’m sure.” He cuts me off with a finality that makes my stomach drop. “Besides, I’ve got an early practice tomorrow.”

I watch, bewildered, as he gathers his clothes and dresses with efficiency—no lingering, no teasing, none of the playfulness that usually characterizes our time together. His movements are precise, almost mechanical.

“Is everything OK?” I venture, pulling my sheet up to cover myself.

He nods, but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Yeah, just tired.”

I don’t believe him, but I also can’t call bullshit without sounding like I care too much. Which I do, but that’s not supposed to be part of our deal, and despite me being honest with myself, I’m not ready to be honest with him.

Especially now he’s about to walk out on me.

Linc is already fully dressed, keys in hand. “I’ll text you about our next lesson, OK?”

“OK.” I manage to smile, though it feels brittle on my face. “Thanks for tonight. It was… educational.”

He pauses at my door, hesitating like he might say something more. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to come back, to explain whatever just happened. Instead, he just nods, and then he’s gone.

What the hell just happened?

Ten minutes ago, he was looking at me like I was the eighth wonder of the world. Now he’s practically sprinting away like I’ve suddenly developed a contagious disease.

Rolling onto my side and huddling up as small as I can, I replay the entire evening, searching for the moment where things went sideways. Was it something I said? Something I did? Was I not responsive enough? Too responsive?

Maybe the reality of me—naked, vulnerable, open to him and completely unguarded—was disappointing compared to whatever he’d built up in his head. Or maybe…

Oh god .

What if he could tell? What if he saw in my face exactly what I was feeling? What if my eyes gave away every complicated emotion swirling inside me—not just desire, but affection, attachment, feelings ?

Clearly he’s a guy who’s playing by the rules.

And rule number three is ‘no feelings’.