Page 8 of Practice Makes Perfect (Pine Barren University #2)

I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking gently at first, then with a bit more pressure when she moans.

Her hands find my hair again, holding me to her as I circle the sensitive peak with my tongue.

I bring my hand up to cup her other breast, squeezing as I roll the nipple between my fingers.

“Oh God,” she gasps, her hips shifting restlessly beneath me.

I switch to her other breast, giving it the same attention while my hand takes over the first, keeping the nipple tight and wet from my mouth. Her whole body is responding to my touch—little shivers, soft moans, the way her hips seem to be seeking friction against something, anything.

The knowledge that I’m the one making her feel this way, that she’s this responsive to my touch, sends a surge of possessiveness through me that I wasn’t expecting. I want to make her feel good. I want to be the one who shows her pleasure.

I’ve had the hots for her for months now.

But now I want to make her hot and bothered.

I move back up to kiss her mouth again, pressing my body more firmly against hers. Even through our jeans, I can feel the heat of her, and I know she can feel how hard I am. And, as if on cue, her hands slip under my shirt, tracing the muscles of my back, and I groan at the contact.

I want to feel her hands everywhere.

She’s getting hotter by the second, her body practically radiating against mine.

Her thighs shift beneath me, seeking friction that I’m more than happy to provide.

I press my hips down, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me, and she makes a soft whimpering sound that damn near shatters my control.

I’ve been with plenty of women, but there’s something different about Em—the way she responds like it’s all new and exciting.

Like I’m giving her something she’s never had before.

The thought makes me want to slow down even more, to savor every reaction, to catalog each sound she makes when I touch her just right.

My fingers trail down her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver beneath my touch. I trace the waistband of her jeans, watching her face carefully for any sign of hesitation. But her eyes are half-closed, lips parted, breathing quick and shallow.

“Can I unbutton these?” I ask, hooking my finger just inside the waistband.

And just like that, everything changes.

Em’s entire body goes rigid. Her eyes fly open, no longer clouded with desire but sharp with something that looks disturbingly like fear. Her hand clamps down on my wrist, stilling my movement.

“Em?” I pull back slightly, confusion replacing arousal. “What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she shakes her head frantically, pushing at my shoulders until I roll off her. She scrambles to sit up, reaching for her top and yanking it over her head without bothering to put her bra back on.

“I—I have to go,” she mumbles, not meeting my eyes as she tugs her top down. “I have an early class tomorrow morning. I need to get back to my dorm.”

Early class? Tomorrow’s Sunday.

“Hey, slow down,” I say, reaching for her but stopping short of actually touching her. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just—” She stands up abruptly. “I really need to go. I forgot about this… thing I have to do.”

She’s lying. That much is obvious. But why? Everything was going great—better than great—and then in the span of two seconds, she completely shut down. I follow her out of the bedroom, my mind racing to figure out what the hell just happened.

“It’s cool that you wanted to stop, but at least let me walk you home,” I say. “It’s late, and the night bus stop has no streetlamps.”

“I’ll be fine.” She’s already shoving her feet into her shoes, not bothering to tie the laces. “I… catch buses in the dark all the time… in fact, it’s quite relaxing…”

Her rambling doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me want to insist even more, but something in her posture—the way she’s holding herself, arms wrapped protectively around her middle—tells me she needs space more than she needs an escort.

“Em, please talk to me.” I hate how frustrated I sound, but I can’t help it. “If I crossed a line?—”

“You didn’t,” she cuts me off, finally looking at me. “I just—I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry, OK?”

Before I can respond, she’s yanking open the door and practically sprinting into the hallway. I stand frozen for a second, completely blindsided by the turn of events. By the time my brain catches up and I dash after her, all I see are the elevator doors sliding shut, taking Em with them.

I stare at the closed doors, utterly bewildered. “What the fuck was that?” I whisper.

One minute she was melting in my arms, the next she couldn’t get away fast enough. It doesn’t make sense. I thought we had chemistry—the kind that makes you forget about anything else—but clearly, I was wrong, or I completely misread the situation.

Running a hand through my hair, I turn back to my apartment, feeling hollow and confused. The look on her face wasn’t just embarrassment or regret or a change of mind. It was fear. And that bothers me way more than being left with the world’s most painful case of blue balls.

I lean against the door, replaying the evening in my mind over and over again. Everything was going absolutely perfect until I asked about her jeans. Was that too far, too fast? But she’d been responding so enthusiastically to everything else, I thought…

I shake my head. Clearly, I was wrong. But that doesn’t explain the way she froze up like she’d been electrocuted. Like I’d suddenly morphed into someone else—someone who scared her—and she needed to run away like I was a slasher in one of those shitty movies.

The sound of the stairwell door opening snaps me out of my thoughts. Mike appears, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, favoring his injured ankle with each step. He looks like he just went twelve rounds with a treadmill and lost.

“What happened to you?” I ask, still leaning against our apartment door.

He grimaces, shifting his weight off his bad ankle. “Went for a jog.”

“With a fucked-up ankle?”

“Physical therapy,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. “Doctor’s orders.”

The expression on my face must say it all, because Mike’s shoulders slump.

“Fine. I thought I’d test it out.” He shrugs, taking in my disheveled hair and the frustration that must be all over my face. “What’s your excuse? You look like shit.”

“Thanks. Really boosting my confidence here.” I sigh. “I think I just cost myself my reputation as the campus ladies’ man.”

“What, did you forget how your dick works?” Mike asks, his lips twitching with the closest thing to humor I’ve seen from him in weeks.

“Worse,” I snort. “A girl just ran out of here like I suggested we murder puppies for fun.”

“Wait, someone was actually here? I thought you were—” He gestures vaguely at my crotch.

“No, Em Dubois was here. And things were going great until… suddenly… they weren’t.”

“Em?” Mike frowns. “Lea’s roommate?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” He gives me a strange look. “Didn’t know you two were a thing.”

“We’re not,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, we just…”

What exactly were we doing? Hooking up? Starting something?

I have no idea, and now I probably never will.

But, for a moment, it felt like something.

Usually, if a hookup gets weird or a girl isn’t interested, I move on.

No harm, no foul. But this feels different.

I feel like I’ve lost more than just my hard-won reputation.

The thought of just shrugging and forgetting about Em bothers me.