Page 113 of A Little Tempting

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with horny, Pickles. Ha! Horny pickles. Get it?”

“Oh, yeah,” I mutter into my hands, “I definitely get it, which is saying something, considering I’ve never—” I smash my lips together and rest my forehead against the desk, praying it’ll open up and swallow me entirely as my words hang in the air. And thanks to the tension I can literally feel rolling off Reeves beside me, I know he heard me loud and clear.

Well, isn’t this a great way to start my day after spending a pretty incredible night beside a guy I really like.

Why? Why do you have to blurt out random shit, Dylan? Can you please learn to keep your freaking mouth shut?

I’m lost in my head, so I barely notice when Reeves leans closer and keeps his voice low. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, but I already figured out you’re a virgin. You don’t need to be ashamed.”

Oh, boy. The things I could say that would unhinge this man’s jaw.

Instead, all I squeak is, “Yup.”

“But it doesn’t mean you’ve never masturbated and shit, right?”

I bury my face even more, cradling the back of my head with my hands. “You did not just ask me that question.”

“Dylan,” he says with a laugh. Yanking me up, he grabs both sides of my face, then looks around the room, making sure no one’s eavesdropping. I do the same, grateful everyone seems as invested in their own conversations as Reeves is with ours. “Look, you have nothing to be ashamed of, Pickles. There’s nothing wrong with a little bean flicking or meat jerking. Trust me, if there was, I’m pretty sure my dick would’ve fallen off by ninth grade.”

We are not having this conversation. We are not having this conversation. We are not?—

“Why do you look like you’re about to puke?” he questions, though he has the decency to stay quiet as his eyes bounce around my face like a pinball. “Seriously. Did your parents catch you once or something? Honestly, I think it’s kind of hot. Not your parents catching you— gross—but the idea of you getting all worked up and slipping your hand?—”

“Stop. Talking.” I try to cover his mouth, but he swats my hand away, undeterred, and goes back to framing my face with his very large hands. I have zero doubts he won’t drop this topic until he gets the answers he’s searching for. Avoiding his gaze, I mumble, “My parents didn’t catch me doing anything because there was nothing to catch.”

“Nothing to… What are you saying?” His eyes widen, and he lets my face go. “Have you never come before, Dylan?”

“I, uh,” I gulp, “I think that’s a question for a better time and place.”

Stunned, he falls back in his seat.

“Fuck.” His attention falls on my lips. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll definitely have a very long conversation about this later, and, uh.” He smiles. “And I think you should be excited. But on that note.” Clearing his throat, he leans his elbows against the hard surface of the table. “I gotta calm the hell down. What’s another emotion, Pickles? One that doesn’t make me want to toss you on the table and make you come with my mouth?”

My jaw drops, and I scan the room again, freaking flabbergasted by the lack of response from my classmates after the words that just came from this man’s mouth.

Came. Mouth.

Dammit, he’s rubbing off on me.

Focus, Dylan.

Realizing no one heard us, thankfully, I try to stay on the topic at hand, or at least attempt to search for a new one. “Right. Emotions. Uh…sadness? Anger? Embarrassment? Surprise?”

“Surprise,” he grunts. “If you had a camera to capture the last three minutes, you’d already be done.” He shakes his head and clears his throat. “But yeah, I like it. Let’s go with surprise.”

“Perfect.”

Grabbing my hand, he tucks it under the table and rests our entwined fingers on his thigh. “Perfect.”

The rest of class crawls by at a snail’s pace, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. Not once. And by halfway through, I relax a little more, savoring the feel of his hand in mine. When the teacher excuses us a little while later, the other students push to their feet and head to wherever they’re going while Reeves and I stay seated.

Brushing his thumb along the back of my hand one more time, he lets me go, grabs the box, places it on the table, and sits back in his chair, lifting his chin toward it.

“Can I open it now?” I ask.

He nods.

Unfolding the flaps, I find almost two dozen DVDs. They’re the same ones from his room. My brows pinch as I look up at him again. “Your movie collection?”

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