Page 7 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)
four
LINC
I insert my key in the door lock and pause for a second, doing a mental stocktake of the state of the apartment.
The last time I had a woman over was two weeks ago—some biochem major whose name started with an M.
Melissa? Melanie? The fact that I can’t remember probably says something unflattering about me.
But Em is different.
I know her name. I’ve known it since she corrected our stats professor last semester and made him recalculate the entire sample variance problem he’d gotten wrong. She’d been so matter-of-fact about it, not even a hint of smugness, just confidence in her competence.
And, ever since I’ve known her and her name, I’ve wanted her in my bed.
I push the door open, suddenly realizing that Mike might be home.
Not that bringing a girl back would technically be a problem—I’ve done it plenty since moving in with him.
But Mike’s mood lately has been as sunny as an ice rink in February, and I don’t want his cloud of gloom dampening whatever this is.
My eyes immediately go to the key bowl on the side table. No keys. I scan the floor where Mike normally kicks off his shoes after practice. No shoes. Relief washes over me because, apparently, the walking downer decided to actually go somewhere tonight.
I lead Em inside by the hand, flipping on the light with my other one. “Home sweet dorm upgrade.”
“Nice place,” she says, looking around. “Definitely beats sharing a bathroom with ten other people.”
“At least Hughes Hall has bathrooms built before 1930…” I grin. “My old frat house… did not…”
She laughs as she steps past me, and I catch a whiff of her scent—vanilla—that makes my mouth water. I close the door, letting go of her hand only long enough to throw the deadbolt, then immediately draw her back to me, gentle but insistent.
“You smell incredible,” I tell her, easing her against the wall.
She blushes, which is fascinating considering where her hand was headed five minutes ago behind O’Neil’s.
But I’ll take this contradiction any day—the shy girl with fire underneath.
I dip my head and press my lips to the side of her neck, right below her ear.
She tilts her head, giving me better access.
“This OK?” I murmur against her skin.
“Mm-hmm,” she responds, the sound vibrating against my lips.
I trail kisses down the length of her neck, savoring the softness of her skin, the quickening pulse I can feel beneath my mouth.
When I reach the base of her throat and give a light suck, she makes the prettiest sigh I’ve ever heard—half gasp, half moan—that sends my blood racing south so fast I feel dizzy.
My hands find her waist, fingertips digging slightly into the fabric of her top. As I pull her closer and press myself into her, she’s responsive to every touch, every kiss, her breathing growing more ragged with each passing second. It’s intoxicating.
“Mike’s not home,” I mumble against her collarbone.
“Is that… relevant right now?” She’s breathless, her voice higher than normal.
I laugh against her skin. “It means we don’t have to worry about being quiet.”
“Oh.” The single syllable comes out as a squeak.
I pull back slightly to look at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, and her eyes are wide. She looks simultaneously turned on and terrified. It’s adorable—and concerning—and as much as I don’t want to stop, I tap on the brakes for just a second.
“Hey,” I say, softening my voice. “We can just talk or take it slow if you want. There’s no pressure.”
For a moment she looks confused, then she smiles. “No, I want… this.” She gestures vaguely between us. “I’m just… it’s been a while.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “We can go as slow as you want.”
She bites her lip, which is so sexy it should be illegal. “Slow is good.”
“Want to see my room?” I ask, suddenly eager to have her in my space, surrounded by my things rather than Mike’s stuff.
Em giggles, still looking shy, although her hands are currently resting on my chest. “Subtle… why didn’t you ask if I want to copy your homework?”
“I’ll have you know that my homework is top-notch,” I deadpan. “Critics have called it ‘moderately competent’ and ‘not the worst they’ve seen.’”
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest—makes it feel both lighter and tighter simultaneously. “Lead the way, Garcia,” she says.
I take her hand again and lead her down the short hallway to my bedroom.
I’m hyper-aware of her following behind me, can feel her presence like a physical weight.
My hands are already itching to touch her again, to see if the skin of her back is as soft as her neck, to find out what other sounds I can draw from her.
But I stop at the doorway.
The threshold.
Because I want her to cross it first.
I stand aside, and she enters my room.
But suddenly, I’m conscious of the unmade bed and the laundry basket overflowing with hockey gear that probably has bacteria so evolved it could walk itself to the washing machine at this point.
Far more conscious than I am usually with hookups, where it’s more of a ‘here’s who I am, take it or leave it’ situation…
Em doesn’t seem to notice, or at least she’s polite enough not to comment.
I take Em’s hand and guide her to the bed.
She sits on the edge, and I have to stop for a moment just to look at her.
Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her face, eyes wide and expectant, lips swollen from our kisses.
The sight of her on my bed makes something primitive in my chest rumble with satisfaction.
“You look good there,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended, as something in the back of my mind reports that this feels like more than a regular hookup.
She smiles, looking up at me through her lashes. “Where specifically? Your room? Your bed? Your life?”
“All of the above.” I move toward her, settling beside her on the mattress. “But especially my bed.”
Her smile falters slightly, and I wonder if I’ve said too much.
But before I can overthink it, I lean in and kiss her again, gently at first and then with increasing urgency as she responds.
I guide her back until she’s lying down with her head on my pillow, her hair fanning out in a dark halo against the navy-blue fabric.
I stretch out beside her, propping myself on one elbow while my other hand caresses her stomach, where her shirt has ridden up.
Her skin is warm, almost hot, beneath my fingertips.
When I shift to settle my weight half on top of her, I can feel the heat radiating from between her legs, and my brain short-circuits.
The thought of sliding my hand down there, of feeling exactly how wet she is, of watching her face as I push a finger inside her—it’s almost overwhelming.
And it takes every bit of mental firepower I’ve got to prevent my muscles from taking matters into their own hand, and trying to utterly ravish her as fast as possible.
But I promised slow.
So instead, I let my hand travel upward, underneath her top, tracing the outline of her ribs until I reach the lace of her bra.
I run my finger along the edge, feeling the contrast between the delicate fabric and her soft skin.
When I brush my thumb over the center of her bra, she gasps, arching slightly into my touch.
“Is this OK?” I ask, watching her face carefully.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Very OK.”
I continue my exploration, circling her nipple through the lace, watching in fascination as her breathing quickens.
When I apply a little more pressure, she makes a small, desperate sound that shoots straight to my groin.
But, again, every bit of willpower I’ve got tells me to take it easy… take it slow… not ruin it…
“I want to take this off,” I say, tugging gently at her shirt. “Can I?”
She nods, already reaching for the hem herself. Together we pull it over her head, and then she’s lying there in a pale blue lace bra that does amazing things for her chest. I trace the edge of the cup where it meets her skin, almost reverently.
“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her, meaning every syllable.
Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she reaches up to run her fingers through my hair, pulling me down for another kiss. I engulf her mouth, even as my hand continues to massage her breast through her bra. Her nipple is hard against my palm.
“Em,” I murmur against her skin. “Can I taste you? Here?” I brush my thumb over her nipple again to make my meaning clear.
She looks dazed for a moment, as if she’s having trouble processing the question. In fact, for the first time it occurs to me that she’s like dough in my hands, totally malleable. It makes me doubly careful not to assume anything with her, or do anything that might ruin this.
But, in response to my question, that shy smile returns, along with a little bite of her lower lip that drives me wild. She nods, a small, tentative movement. I can tell she’s trying really hard to keep from spewing out a million words, both tense and excited at the same time.
“Words, please,” I say gently, trying to relax her. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yes,” she whispers, then smiles and clears her throat. “Yes, I’d like that.”
After looking into her eyes for a second and seeing nothing but want, I reach behind her to unclasp her bra, my fingers surprisingly steady despite the anticipation coursing through me. When the clasp comes free, I ease the straps down her arms, revealing her breasts to my gaze for the first time.
They’re perfect—not large, but not too small, with rosy nipples that tighten even further as the cool air hits them.
Or maybe it’s my heated gaze. Either way, it’s the most erotic thing I’ve seen in a long time.
And there’s not a thing in this world I want more right now than to have my way with them.