Page 38
“Weirder,” I clarify.
His mouth twitches in a small smile. He sets the book aside and looks at a spot on my shirt instead of my face.
“I don’t know what to do with my hands,” he admits.
Well, I can work with that. That’s what I’m here for. It’s my job at the moment. Tutoring foreplay. And I can still call someone later if it gets to me too much. But it’s just touching, so I’ll be fine.
I toss the Gatorade on my mattress and turn back to him holding out my hand, palm up.
“Start here,” I say, nodding to my open hand. “Same as last night, hold my hand. You don’t even have to stand up if you don’t want to.”
Quinn eyes my hand like it’s a snake. He looks at it long enough that I almost pull it back, feeling slightly off balance. Then he places his fingers in mine. They’re cold from the tea, or from nerves, or from both.
He stands up, and he is completely in my space. I have to look down to meet his eyes; he’s at least six inches shorter than me, maybe more.
“Hi,” he says again, and I huff a laugh.
“Hi, Quinn.”
His other hand is stuck at his side, flexing open and closed.
“Can I show you something?” I ask, keeping my voice level. Pretending I really am just a tutor. “I want to put my other hand on your waist. Over your shirt. So you know what it’s like when someone’s close.”
He glances down at the space between us as though he’s measuring it.
“That’s a thing people do?” he asks. I have to wonder if he’s ever watched couples in public with that question, but I don’t voice it.
“Yeah. It makes it less awkward and gives you a place to put your hand so it’s not just hovering. And it lets you feel if the other person is pulling away or leaning in.”
Quinn swallows. “Okay. You can.”
“Say the whole thing for me.”
His lips part, and I watch them waiting for him to say something. “You can touch my waist. Over my shirt.”
“Good.”
I lift my free hand slow enough that he can stop me if he wants. Then curl my fingers over his waist, pressing my palm to his shirt. He jumps a tiny bit, but doesn’t step back.
“Still good?” I ask.
He nods. Then, because I wait, “Yes.”
My thumb brushes an absent circle over the cotton of his shirt, and I think he might shiver. I pause the movement. Maybe it’s too much for him. He already told me he doesn’t like touching.
“Your turn,” I say. “Put your hand on my arm or my side, you pick.”
Quinn stares at my chest like I just gave him an assignment he isn’t sure he can complete. Then he inhales deeply, his eyes going to my bicep. Then he lifts his free hand and sets it on my upper arm, featherlight, like the contact might be too much. A jolt goes straight to my dick. Guess I’m going to be teaching myself a lesson in restraint today too, because when he spreads his fingers wide and releases my hand to place his other hand on the other arm I think I might die.
I smile down at him, pretending some more that this is only a lesson.
“See,” I say. “Not so bad. Right?”
“But…how is this foreplay? We are basically just standing like we might start dancing or something.”
“Dancing can be foreplay if you do it right.”
“I don’t dance,” he says stiffly.
