Page 62 of Goalie Lessons

We’ve been here before. He’s had his hand against me just like this.

Except, no—nothinglike this. Every point of contact sparks. His fingers against my clit, my fingers against his, the sensation of his fingers, those knuckles bigger than mine, maybe even double the size. Feeling his hand there, the roughness of his skin, it makes me feel almost precious. Delicate.

Ravished.

Slowly, holding his gaze, I begin to move his fingers the way that I would move mine—alternating between wide, slow circles and tight, quick flicks.

With a start, I remember that I should be talking, so I rally myself, clear my throat, and speak through the intense flush over my face.

“Obviously,” I choke, eyes fluttering, finding it hard to think through the waves of sensation coursing through my body. “Everyone is different. So this-this is a good way to find out what she likes, okay? If she doesn’t want you to touch her right away, you can ask to watch her touch herself—that can be really hot.”

“It sounds hot,” Grayson says, gruffly, and his voice in my ear almost sends me right over the edge then and there.

It takes me a moment to recover, and I slow down our pace, returning to the wide, slow circles again.

“So, obviously, you know what the clit is?”

“I’m familiar,” he says, smiling at me. He’s propped up on his elbow, staring at me languidly, looking like he could be on the cover of a magazine right now. I look away from those warm eyes and focus on what I’m trying to do.

“Well,” I say, blinking. “Y-you don’t want to stay on it the entire time. Remind me to show you a diagram of it later, but it’s a lot b-bigger than you think, and it stretches down to the vaginal canal.”

“It does?”

I nod, feeling my hair tangle against his bicep. “It does. So even when a woman has an orgasm from penetration, there’s usually still clitoral stimulation. It stretches to either side of the vaginal opening.”

“Hmm,” Grayson says, then he’s dipping his hand down, pressing against the opening with a knuckle, and I arch against the feeling, instinctively bringing a hand to my mouth to keep from making a noise.

How is this evenpossible? That the first night with him could be so…inattentive, and now he’s pressing every single button, even ones I didn’t know I had?

Grayson slides his fingers back up to my clit, and I realize my hand has fallen away, giving him no physical guidance. He goes on, copying the circles with an exacting pressure. I can’t think straight, and mindlessly, I reach up for his face, drawing his lips down to mine.

He kisses me and never stops with the consistent, steady pressure. With his tongue in my mouth, I come on his hand, body shaking against his. He holds me to him, pressing kisses against my hair and skin, then slowly winds down the motion, drawing out every last bit of the orgasm without me having to coach him on it.

When it’s finally over, he gathers me up and pulls my body against his, tucking my head under his chin. I breathe, relaxing more than I thought was possible, and just when I’m about to fall asleep, the ringer on his phone goes off—alerting us it’s time for him to get the girls from school.

Grayson rises from the bed, washes his hands in the bathroom, then returns to kiss me goodbye before darting out the door, and I’m left in the hotel room alone, heart still beating way too hard.

***

I shouldn’t be nervous, but I am.

“God, Astrid, you look like you’re about to barf,” Sloane laughs, popping her sunglasses up onto her head and peering at me. She’s wearing a soft mustard sweater and a pair of light-washed jeans. I’m in a hoodie and jean jacket, paired with leggings.

For some reason, I spent an unreasonable amount of time getting ready this morning, Googlingtrendy clothesandwhat’s lameand finding almost no usable information. I oscillated between desperately wanting to seem cool, and wondering why in the world I cared what a pre-teen thought.

Finally, after getting approval from Sloane, I settled on my outfit. Casual, but trendy.

I hope.

Callie comes barreling out the front door, and Grayson follows her. When I see him, I instantly feel his hands on me again—the rough scrape of his stubble over my neck—and I have to look away.

What in the world is it with him and sweatpants? Gray sweatpants shouldn’t be as appealing as they are on him, hugging his thighs and the area between. It’s just sweats and a T-shirt, but I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to slide my fingers into the waistband, push them down over his hips.

Fuck.

“Hi!” Callie says, reaching the door and waving. Sloane unlocks it and she hops in, sliding into the backseat. Grayson catches up a second later, already shaking his head. I watch as Sloane rolls down her window and Grayson settles an arm on the ledge, leaning in.

Suddenly, inexplicably, I am more jealous of my best friend than I have ever been in my life.

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