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Is it hot in here? It’s stifling suddenly, and no matter how I tug at my collar, I can’t get any relief.
Lane flicks on her bedside lamp, then crosses to the wall and smacks off the overhead light. The room turns dimmer; more intimate. Cave-like and quiet, with only the sounds of our soft breaths and music seeping through the walls. Rain starts to fall outside, pattering against the windowpane.
“I’m not sure how much else there is to say about kissing.”
Or if there is, I’m not qualified to teach it. Because the second Lane’s lips met mine in that library, I lost every thought in my head. I should have been more analytical, less lost in the moment, since that’s what Lane asked me for: tuition.
Not shameless enjoyment.
“Something else, then,” Lane says, her tone light. She sits on the edge of her mattress, bouncing a little, and tilts her head as she watches me. “There must be more to learn. I mean, I can think of a dozen things I’d like to do to you, Ambrose Brent, and ideally do well.”
Jesus Christ.
It’s not about me.
Need to keep reminding myself of that fact. It’s notmeLane wants, it’s a tutor. This is practice for her. Practice, so that when she meets a man she truly wants, she’s ready to blow his unworthy mind.
Can’t let myself forget that. Can’t let myself get too sucked in, or else the day will come when Lane moves on from our lessons, and my whole world will turn gray.
But I can do this. Science is all about keeping an objective distance—keeping the world at arm’s length to study it better. I am fully capable of keeping my emotions in check.
“I want to touch you,” Lane says suddenly, interrupting the silent battle raging in my head. “Will you let me?”
My head nods unbidden, and my hand tugs out the desk chair. I sit facing the bed. Lane scooches to the edge of the mattress, her bare knees between my own spread legs, and I’m already ruined, ruined, ruined.
“Tell me what I’m doing wrong.” I barely hear her soft voice over the pulse thudding in my ears. “Give me corrections, Ambrose. Teach me.”
A hand hovers over my chest—then finally,finally, makes contact.
All Lane has done is rest her hand over my chest, the sensation muffled by my shirt, and already I’m choking back a groan.
It’s been so long. The last three days have been interminable, my thoughts scattered and my mood wild, and the sheer relief when Lane finally touches me again… it takes me by surprise.
It’s a jolt, a shock to my system, followed by the blissful spread of calm through my chest. My heartbeat raps against her palm.
Outside the window, thunder rumbles again, and the rain lashes harder. It smells like wet concrete and copper pennies.
“Well?” Lane whispers.
Glancing down at her hand on my chest, I can’t resist breaking into a smile. “No notes so far.”
Her giggle is so fucking sweet.
Down, down, down her hand trails, my shirt buttons catching against the heel of her palm. Lane strokes a slow, heated path down my chest and stomach, humming at the tensed muscles she can feel through the fabric.
“I like touching you, Ambrose Brent.”
And I like being touched—by Lane Rhodes, anyway. I’m like an overgrown house cat, practically purring beneath her stroke.My teeth clench together to keep me from saying anything stupid, and after a long pause of waiting for a reply, Lane sighs and keeps going.
Her other hand rests gently on my knee, then trails slowly up the length of my thigh. And Lane leans closer as she reaches my hip, her cheeks already flushed in the lamplight, until both hands are on my belt buckle.
Lane nibbles on her bottom lip, blue eyes darting away. She’s suddenly shy. Unsure. “Um.”
Catching her wrists, I move both hands back to my shoulders. “Lesson one: you don’t need to rush.”
Not if she’s not ready. Not if Lane feels as out of control and dangerous asIfeel right now, like the whole planet has spun off its axis. My student puffs out a breath, and gives me a wobbly smile.
“Okay. I’ll keep exploring, then.”
