Page 6 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
I should say yes. That would be the sensible thing.
Return to our friends, where it’s safe, where I won’t be tempted to climb this man like a tree.
But I don’t want to be sensible. For once, I want to go a bit crazy.
Because although I’m throttling ahead at a million miles an hour, it’s with him, and better than dick pics…
“Do you want to go outside instead?” I ask impulsively.
Linc’s eyes darken and a smile spreads across his face. “Absolutely,” he says.
He takes my hand—his palm delightfully warm and slightly calloused against mine—and leads me toward the exit. My brain, which has apparently short-circuited from the kiss, reboots just enough to make me realize I should tell Lea where I’m going.
As we pass our table, I catch Lea’s eye. She raises both eyebrows and silently mouths “Way to go!” with an enthusiasm that would make a cheerleader jealous. I feel my cheeks flush hot enough to trigger smoke alarms, but there’s also a thrill of excitement singing through my veins.
The cool night air hits my skin as we step outside, a welcome relief from the bar’s stuffiness. The street is busy with students moving between parties, but Linc guides me around the side of the building, away from the crowds and streetlights.
We’re tucked into a small alcove where the brick exterior meets the neighboring building—not exactly private, but shadowy enough that we’re not on full display. And between the increased privacy and the lower temperature, everything between us feels more charged.
“This OK?” he asks, his voice lower now, threading his fingers through mine.
I nod, not trusting my voice. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m convinced he can hear it over the muffled bass thumping from inside O’Neil’s. In fact, it’s amazing that the bar’s neighbors don’t complain about the noise, given there’s live music every night and?—
“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” Linc stops my brain from racing, then pulls me closer until we’re nearly chest to chest. “Since that stats final.”
“When I had a mental breakdown over question seventeen?” I ask, my ability to form sentences miraculously returning.
He laughs softly. “You were adorable, all flustered with your hair falling out of your ponytail.”
“Oh God, you remember my academic meltdown?” I feign shock. “That’s mortifying.”
“I remember everything about you, Em,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my stomach flip. “I like having you like this.”
Before I can overanalyze that statement (which my brain is DYING to do), he cups my cheek with his free hand and leans down, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss so gentle it’s barely there. It’s tentative, testing, like he’s giving me a chance to pull away.
But pulling away is the absolute last thing on my mind.
When he starts to withdraw, something in me rebels. I’ve spent years avoiding moments like this, letting my memories and fears win, and I’m sick of it. Emboldened by cider and pent-up desire, I rise on my tiptoes, slide my hand around the back of his neck, and pull his mouth to mine.
This time, there’s nothing tentative about it.
Linc makes a surprised sound against my lips that quickly morphs into a hum of approval when I part my lips, inviting him deeper. His hands slide to my waist, drawing me against him until my chest is flush with his. The heat of his body seeps through my top, and my nipples harden in anticipation.
When his tongue slides against mine, a soft sound escapes my throat—half sigh, half moan. His hands trace the curve of my spine, fingertips pressing lightly as they move down to my hips. Every touch leaves a trail of heat that pools low in my abdomen, an ache settling between my thighs.
He cups my cheek again, angling my head slightly to deepen the kiss even further. I’m breathless, dizzy with wanting him, my hands sliding under the hem of his shirt to feel the warm skin of his back. His muscles shift beneath my fingertips as he presses me gently against the brick wall.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at me.
“You’re full of surprises,” he murmurs, using my full name in a way that makes it sound like a caress.
I’m too caught up in sensation to formulate a clever response. All I can think about is how much I want his mouth back on mine, how perfectly our bodies fit together, how the wall behind me is the only thing keeping me upright.
“Want to go back in?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.
“In your mouth?” I whisper.
“I meant inside the bar.” He laughs.
“Not really,” I admit.
“Where, then?”
The question is direct but his tone is gentle, giving me space to back out. But, unlike earlier when I hesitated about talking to him at the bar, I don’t surprise myself with my answer this time. I’ve spent too long hiding from what I want, and right now, I want Linc.
“Your place?” I say simply.
He nods, and holds out his hand.
And I take it.
As we start to walk, I fish my phone out of my pocket with my free hand and quickly text Lea:
Going to Linc’s. Don’t wait up.
Her response comes immediately:
OK, but only do what you’re comfortable with!
I smile at my friend’s concern, but I don’t respond. I know Lea wants the best for me, and I also know Louis is going to kill me for not letting him screen Linc. But, looking up at Linc, his expression a mixture of desire and something softer, I don’t care.
As we walk hand in hand down the dimly lit side street that leads toward off-campus housing, I can’t help wondering if this is a mistake. Not because I don’t want this—God knows I do—but because wanting something doesn’t necessarily mean you’re ready for it.
But then Linc squeezes my hand and gives me that half-smile that does ridiculous things to my insides, and I push my doubts aside. For once in my life, I’m not going to overthink this. I’m not going to let fear decide for me. Tonight, I’m choosing what I want.
And right now, what I want is Lincoln Garcia.