Page 1 of Sex Positive

One

Nash Hudson usestoo much tongue.

This thought lands with a thud in Charlie’s gut while she tries convincing herself she wants his touch. His fingers roam under her sweater, floating across her waist and fanning up her rib cage, inching closer to her breasts, all while his tongue jabs erratically in her mouth.

She wants to like him—god, it would be so much easier if she lusted for him—but his hands are wrong, his body is wrong, histongueis wrong. Not that she’s had experience with a wide variety of tongues and hands and fingers, but she knows she’s not supposed to feel like crawling out of her skin when he rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She’s not supposed to notice the TV remote digging into the small of her back, not supposed to be more interested in the true crime documentary playing on the TV screen than what Nash is doing with his mouth.

His hips mold to hers, his arousal obvious against her pelvis, and Charlie tenses when he reaches for the clasp of her bra, attempting to unhook it. Next, he’ll squeeze her breasts in a way he believes she likes based on the accidental surprised gasp she released when he last tried it a few days ago. But it wasn’t pleasurable, and she definitely does not have “nipple play” on her list of sexual acts she wants to try.

When his mouth shifts to her neck, he rumbles in her ear, “You feel so good,” before his hands skim down to the waistband of her jeans. She arches against him, trying—tryingso hard—to enjoy it, despite his failed attempt to get her off the last time she lay on this couch. Despite how, when she instructed him where to apply pressure to her clit—right there—and how fast to go—slower, lighter, yes, perfect—he shushed her, telling her he knew what he was doing.

Five minutes later, she asked him to stop because she feared he’d rub her raw.

Now he swiftly unbuttons her jeans, and she’s not even embarrassed about her very unsexy pink cotton underwear, because what is there to be embarrassed about when she’s no longer in the moment? When she’s imagining someone else’s hands, hands she’s tried blocking from her mind? Those hands have never touched her likethis, and yet they—along with a pair of broad shoulders and strong arms and a stupid, irritating smirk—still take up a distressingly large amount of space in her brain.

Nash’s mouth moves to her navel, and Charlie jumps; she was so lost in her ridiculous—foolish—thoughts, she didn’t notice his journey downward. Tugging off her jeans, he exposes her underwear.

“These are nice,” he murmurs with a wink. He runs his palms over her hips, his fingers hooking into her waistband.

“Nash—” she says, but he just hums before his hands move to unbutton his own jeans.

Something sharp and shivery races up her spine at the sight of his bulge, something uncertain—

“Nash, wait.”

His gaze flicks to hers, his hands freezing in the middle of pushing his jeans over his hips. With a sigh, he sits back on his heels. “What, Charlie?”

She doesn’t flinch at his tone, a testament to her profound control. Disappointment crackles through his body and his lips are pressed together, but Dr. Victoria Angelo’s voice chimes like a bell in her brain:

Consent can be taken away at any time.

She sits up. “Not tonight.” Her mouth is dry, her pulse loud and insistent in her ears. “I don’t want to do this tonight.”

Or any night, her brain adds, shutting the door on this failed experiment.

Nash glances away, running a hand through his thick, dark locks, his gaze directed toward the television. His off-campus apartment is in the nicest complex Archwood has to offer; the majority of students who live here have wealthy parents who help with their rent. A standard one-bedroom with an open-concept kitchen full of modern appliances, it’s decorated in a minimalist style with light gray walls, furniture from IKEA, and aScarfaceposter on the wall opposite the television.

When she visited for the first time two weeks ago under the guise of studying together for biostats, Charlie knew what she was doing. She’d had her eye on Nash for weeks, and it was time to put her hypothesis to the test:

Ifshe finds someone aesthetically pleasing and desirable,thenlosing her virginity will be more pleasurable and satisfying.

By the end of the night, her lips were swollen from the heavy make-out session she’d initiated, and she felt confident and desired and completely in control of the situation.

After the botched orgasm last time, however, Nash entered the less-than-desirable category, and Charlie was increasingly sure that continuing on this path toward sexual discovery would be neither pleasurable nor satisfying.

Nash faces her, tapping his fingers on his knees.

“Is everything okay?” he murmurs, his expression inscrutable.

“Yes, I just—” Charlie scrambles for an excuse while simultaneously knowingnois all the excuse she needs. But she’s in a man’s apartment and despite her earlier confidence, she is out of her depth.

She hates not knowing what she’s doing.

“I have a lot on my mind right now.” She runs a hand through her unruly curls. “You know, the biostats midterm is supposed to be a killer, and I’m in charge of the safe sex table at the union tomorrow, and…” Flashing him a smile, she shrugs. “I think it’s best we hold off.”

Nash nods, arching a brow. “Right, your little condom table.”

Charlie frowns, adjusting her shirt so her bra is no longer exposed. “It’s not alittle condom table—”