Tip seven; enthusiasm really is the key. Be confident and enthusiastic and you'll enjoy it and they will think you're good. But practice makes perfect, grab that pillow and practice riding it. Draw with your hips, up, down - side to side. Spell out the word Coconut. That is what you want to do when you're on top.
Ivy
I watch the door shut.
I stand there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the door like it might open again if I concentrate hard enough.
It doesn't.
Eventually, I move.
Save me a dance.
What does that even mean?
I drift to the window, pushing the curtain aside with two fingers. Outside, the afternoon light is soft, golden, the kind that makes everything look beautiful. Asher crosses the front lawn with my brother beside him, their shoulders bumping like they always do, easy and familiar.
Leon says something that makes Asher laugh.
The sound carries faintly through the glass.
And then, as if Asher feels my eye on him, his gaze moves up to me in the window.
My stomach drops and I step back from the window with a jerk, letting the curtain drop from my fingers.
My heart pounds like I was caught doing sornthing illegal. Which is ridiculous . I was just . . . looking.
Then I hear the sound of Leon's car starting and I breathe out the breath I didn't realise I was holding.
The house goes quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Empty quiet.
I exhale slowly, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. "C'mon Ivy," I mutter to myself. He's helping you. That's it. He's confident. He flirts with everyone.
I repeat it like a mantra.
Then I turn away from the window.
My room feels different now. Too still. Like it knows what I'm about to do and is judging me for it.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my bedside table.
The book is right there.
Face down. Innocent.
Absolutely not innocent.
I pick it up and flip it open to the page from last night.
The words jump out at me immediately. Not even trying to be subtle.
I sigh. "Okay," I tell the empty room. "Homework."
I stretch out on the bed, propping myself up against the pillows. I read for a bit first - force myself to actually read instead of skim - trying to focus on the characters, the setting, the whole dramatic buildup the author clearly worked very hard on.
It's... effective.
My body reacts before my brain catches up, warmth pooling low in my stomach. I remember what Asher said. About paying attention. About learning what feels good.
"Scientific," I whisper. "This is very scientific."
I close my eyes.
I try to focus inward. Sensations. Reactions. What makes me pause, what makes me want more. I try to stay present, to treat it like a lesson instead of whatever spiral my mind wants to go down.
It works.
For maybe thirty seconds.
Then, completely uninvited, Asher's voice slips in.
Foreplay.
I groan softly and open my eyes. "No," I say out loud. "Not helpful."
I squeeze them shut again and try to redirect. I picture literally anything else. The book characters. A faceless, nameless guy. Someone vague. Generic. Safe.
Except now my brain is being difficult on purpose.
Because suddenly it's not just Asher's voice - it's the way he looked at me like he already knew what I was thinking before I did. The way he said my name like it meant something.
I sit up abruptly, flustered.
"This is ridiculous," I tell myself. "You are alone."
I try again.
Slower this time. Less pressure. I focus on what Asher said about sweet spots - about noticing reactions instead of forcing them. About letting my body lead instead of my head.
Irony at its finest, because my head is the problem.
Every time I get close - every time that tight coil starts to build and I feel my hand drift down my stomach, there he is again.
His hands clasped behind his back.
You're good at this.
His mouth curving into that knowing smile, those wicked blue eyes on me. Like he's in the room - like he's watching me.
I groan and flop back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
"Why?" I demand of absolutely no one. "Why are you here?"
As if summoned by the accusation, my brain supplies another image: Asher leaning over me yesterday, whispering words in my ear that I'd only ever read in pages of a book.
...take it like a good girl.
I press my face into a pillow.
"Stop," I mumble. "You're ruining everything."
I try one last time.
Deep breath. Focus. Sensation over imagination.
It almost works.
And then - without warning my brain crosses a line.
It's not memory anymore.
It's him over me.
Asher's weight pinning me into the mattress, his mouth on mine, hands warm and sure, like he knows exactly what he's doing - like he knows exactly what I want.
I bolt upright with a gasp.
That's it.
I give up.
I let out a frustrated laugh and shove the book aside, collapsing onto my back like I've just lost a very personal battle.
"So much for control," I mutter.
I stare at the ceiling fan as it spins lazily above me, my heart still racing for absolutely no productive reason. The irony hits me all at once.
I can't finish because of him.
Not because he touched me. Not because he did anything remotely inappropriate.
Just because he exists.
That thought alone is enough to make me laugh again, breathless and a little hysterical.
"This is fine," I tell the ceiling. "Totally fine."
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket up, tucking it under my chin like that might somehow reset my brain. It doesn't.
All I can think about is how calm he looked. How controlled. How easy he made it all seem.
Of course he can leave a room like that.
Of course he doesn't spiral afterward.
I'm just another lesson. Another girl. Another person he's helped before.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to smother the sting that thought brings with it.
"Homework," I whisper. "I'll do it later."
When Asher's face isn't sabotaging me.
When my brain stops doing whatever this is.
When I'm not picturing his mouth every time I close my eyes.
I sigh into the pillow, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
Somehow, impossibly, he's managed to get under my skin without ever laying a finger on me.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
And then - annoyingly - my brain circles back to what I already said earlier.
Putting it into practice.
I already brought it up. Already decided reading and listening isn't enough.
I need to actually do something.
With someone else.
I frown into the pillow.
Dylan.
Is Dylan the right move?
He's... fine. Safe. Predictable. He flirts like he's following instructions, not like he's trying to crawl inside my head. He doesn't make my body react without permission.
Which is kind of the point.
This isn't about feelings. It's about learning.. Experience. Experimenting.
Practice.
I take a breath.
Yeah.
Dylan makes sense.
He'll be at the party. He always is.
Nothing complicated.
I nod to myself, decision settling even if it doesn't feel solid.
I don't know if I just made the best or worst decision of my life.