Page 61 of Sex Positive

“That felt so good. You have no idea.” His hair is a mess, his cheeks flushed an attractive pink. “Was that a sufficient enough distraction?”

She huffs out a laugh, holding up her hand. “I’d call it a success.”

Five minutes later, they’re both fully clothed—Charlie throws Wes a crumpled T-shirt she finds on his floor—and she’s studying his bookshelf with the intensity of an archaeologist at an excavation site.

“You know,” she begins, scanning the tomes on display—Tolkien and Tolstoy, Jemisin and Sanderson, Austen and Orwell. She glances over her shoulder at him where he hovers behind her. “This was our third tutoring session.”

His lips twitch. “I’m aware.”

“It hasn’t been all bad.”

“Obviously.” He winks. “I’m a fucking delight, and the occasional orgasm adds to the appeal.”

She shoves him, and his quiet laughter fills her ears.

“Anyway,” she continues, crossing her arms over her chest, “I wouldn’t be opposed to adding a few extra sessions.” She shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. “If you need them.”

She didn’t anticipate offering to keep tutoring him, intent on sticking to her three-session agreement. But she wasn’t lying when she said it hadn’t been all bad.

Andnotjust because of the orgasm.

“Of course I need them, Rogers.” He pulls on one of her curls. “I’m hopeless without you.”

Her pulse trips, but she quickly brushes his words off. If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s that Wesley Quinn is still a shameless flirt.

Finished with her examination of his bookshelves, she slides around him and moves toward his door, careful to avoid touching him.

“Same time next week?” he says.

“Can’t.” She runs her fingers through her curls, trying to tame what she can. “It’s the clinic’s holiday party at the arcade bar downtown.”

“That sounds fun. Do you get a plus one?”

She winces when her fingers snag on a particularly stubborn snarl. “Are you asking for a friend?”

He smiles. “Maybe. Or maybe I want to join you.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you, I like hanging out with you again.”

She stares at him.

He straightens an already straight book on his shelf. “You help take my mind off things.”

She frowns, studying him, noting the tension in his back. When he finally faces her, her skepticism must be obvious because he rolls his eyes.

“Why are you so quick to think the worst of me?”

She ignores his question. “If you want to come, then sure.”

“I want to,” he insists.

“Okay.”

“Great.” He smiles. “I promise I’ll be there.”

Without thinking, she says, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”