Page 33 of Sex Positive

Theo frowns, looking uncharacteristically perturbed. “Are they usually old white men?”

Charlie sighs. “In general, yes.”

He grimaces. “That’s…disturbing.”

He wiggles his fingers once more and disappears. The door to front reception opens and closes, and silence settles over the office.

“So.” Charlie looks at Victoria, whose expression is a mixture of contemplation and bewilderment. “That is Theo Fox.”

Victoria’s mouth lifts at the corners, her fingers tapping her desk. When she flicks her gaze to Charlie, the glint of determination in her mentor’s eye sends a surge of anticipatory excitement through her.

“I guess I have some podcast episodes to listen to.”

Wes texts her later to schedule another tutoring session. They agree on a time, and she insists that they meet at her place again.

Quinn

I eagerly await your conclusions regarding our experiment??

She stares at her phone, her fickle heart flipping in her chest. Too excited about her victory with Theo, she hasn’t thought—much—about the sensation of Wes’s hands on her body and his mouth on her neck.

She doesn’t respond.

That night, Charlie lies awake for a long time, staring at her bedroom ceiling. Flopping around, she tries finding a comfortable position, a cool spot on the sheets. She punches her pillow to fluff it, but everything is too hot, her skin overly sensitive even against her soft bedding.

Kicking off her blankets in a pique of frustration, she huffs out a breath and closes her eyes.

She is drowning. Drowning in the waters of Wesley Quinn that are crashing against her shores like a tsunami, battering down her walls like they are mere kindling. It reminds her of what she once yearned for, something foolish and far too naïve, before she learned from her heartbreak.

While he might not have feelings for her, he made it clear he’s attracted to her, which certainly helps. And he’s offering her something she’s only ever dreamed of.

Do you want to come for me, Charlie?

A whisper in her ear, words etched into her bones.

She reflects on what she learned from their frustratingly illuminating experiment.

The way he deliberately moved his hands over her body indicates experience she’s been yearning for—confidence that he knows what his partner wants—but he was also unafraid to confirm that she liked it. Already a stark contrast to Nash.

Wes’s mouth, sucking on that spot on her neck in a way she didn’t know she wanted, dragging his lips across her skin.

And his words—god, had Wesley Quinn uncovered her desire for dirty talk? The things he said sit in her brain like an itch she’s forbidden to scratch. Taunting her. Burrowing deeper and deeper.

His voice, deep and rumbling, has always done something to her, but now her imagination concocts the most wildly inappropriate phrases he might whisper in her ear.

She exhales; she can feel the ghosts of his hands on her hips, his fingers dancing across the waistband of her pajama shorts. His mouth hot on her neck, his thumb brushing her nipple. So real that she’s burning up, shifting her legs as a gnawing ache builds in her core, begging to be released.

She imagines him covered in a fine sheen of sweat, kneeling on her bed, his hands and powerful arms maneuvering her exactly how he wants, the low timbre of his voice igniting her blood while he tells her what to do, asks her how she likes it, moans his approval.

She may be a virgin, but she knows how to get herself off—she tried to show Nash how to do just that very recently, for god’s sake. But the thought of Wesley Quinn doing it for her has never been so real until this moment.

Years ago, before she learned about her body, about her desire, before she retrained herself to think of sexuality as something to be unashamed of, she felt a paralyzing amount of guilt about her thoughts, about her body’s reactions when a boy kissed her or when she read something tantalizing in a book that made a pressure build between her legs.

Now she knows what she wants, knows it’s normal, and she craves release.

Swallowing, she shifts her hand to her breast, caressing the peaked bud. Wes’s mouth is on hers, his tongue tracing her jaw, laving at her neck. She’s rocking under him, his hard cock pressed against her, right where she needs it.

Her fingers dip below her waistband, and she inhales as she circles her clit, her slickness evidence of how incredibly turned on she is simply by imagining his touch.