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“Take another and just imagine a place where you’re not nervous. Wherever you feel most confident. That’s where you are.”
“Okay.” I imagine the place he’s telling me to. “I’m okay,” I reassure him.
“Good.” He brushes my hair off my shoulders and readjusts the position we’re in.
I take another breath, and I feel his hands coast down the sides of my arms.
“Do you touch yourself?” he repeats his earlier question.
My heart skips beats in my chest, but I brave it out.
“Yes.”
“Show me how.”
I hesitate at first but then I slide my hands up over my rib cage and then over my breasts.
“You like to touch your breasts first?”
“Yes.”
“Like this?” His hands follow mine and rest on the backs of them.
“Yes, like this.” I show him even though I feel the heat rising on my cheeks.
“Do you play with your nipples?”
“Sometimes.”
“Softly? Do you like them pinched?”
“Mostly soft. Sometimes I pinch. Sometimes I use my nails.”
“Can I try?”
I don’t know if I can handle Quentin touching me like that. I can barely handle sitting in his lap. But I think this might be a once-in-a-lifetime chance with him, so I’d better take it.
Besides, this isn’t about him. This is about Xander. If I screw things up here, it doesn’t matter. He isn’t the goal. I could do this.
“Okay,” I agree, and I slip my hands out from under his.
His palms cup the sides of my breasts and then work down, taking the weight of them on as my nipples start to peak. Even in the dull light it’s obvious with no bra and me wearing this thin ribbed tank. One I purposefully wore to get his attention.
His. Not Xander’s. I’d worn it knowing Xander wouldn’t be here tonight. I’d done it for Quentin’s benefit. When I admit that to myself my nerves resurface.
Quentin’s fingers drift over my nipples, touching them softly through the fabric and then rolling them gently between his thumb and forefinger. The sensation is dulled by the cotton, but it still sends sparks of awareness coursing through me.
“Does that feel good?”
“Yes.”
He continues playing with them, soft at first and then a little rougher before he repeats the pattern.
“Then what do you do?”
I slide my hands down over my stomach slowly, anxious even though I know I shouldn’t be. Quentin is thepractice. Xander is the main event. This is the warmup. If I can’t be comfortable with a guy I don’t care about, there’s no way I can handle someone I’ve crushed on for years.
I feel Quentin’s lips on me then, soft, and warm as he presses them to my shoulder. He dots a few kisses upwards, and I’m already imagining what it would be like to have him following my hands down my body.
