She exhales, shaking her head quickly. “I just mean we’ve been friends forever, and I’m comfortable with you.”
Then she pauses. Blinks. And I can almost see the thought forming behind her eyes, the reckless, impossible one I don’t want her to put voice to.
Much.
“Maybe you could…” She hesitates, biting her lip, her gaze flicking up through her lashes. “…give me lessons.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
No. Nope. Absolutely not. Worst. Idea. Ever.
My throat makes a sound that can only be described as a dying walrus noise as I try to swallow words that won’t come. Her eyes widen instantly, horror flashing across her face.
“I’m kidding,” she blurts, waving her hand. “God, I was kidding, Jaxon. I wouldn’t actually… I mean, I’d never risk our friendship. I was just thinking—you haven’t been with anyone in a while, and I?—”
She’s rambling. Which means she’s nervous. Which means she’s not kidding.
“—I just thought maybe I could learn a few things, you know, not like that, just—ugh, never mind.” She groans, running a hand through her hair. “Forget I said anything. I’m just…bad at this. Clearly.” Her voice drops to a mumble. “It’s no wonder Matt didn’t show up the other night. He probably?—”
“I’ll do it.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
Her head jerks up, eyes wide.
What the ever-loving fuck did I just agree to?
10
Rowyn
I glance at Jaxon as he drives me home, one hand tight on the wheel, the other gripping his thigh, like he has something very important on his mind. I get it. My brain is doing Olympic-level cartwheels.
My God. Did I really ask him to give me sex lessons?
Yes. Yes, I did.
And he said yes.
Holy heck.
How did we go from a fake relationship to sex lessons in one weekend? I honestly have no idea. There should be a warning label on hockey players: may cause spontaneous poor decisions… that feel really, really good.
But weirdly, I’m kind of…happy about it. There’s something freeing about admitting my flaws—my lack of experience, my constant overthinking—and knowing that with him, I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to impress. If I fumble, ask for directions, or accidentally confuse a moan with a sneeze, it’s fine. He’ll be the teacher. I’ll be the student. Easy peasy.
“So,” I start, trying to sound casual and not like a woman who’s about to get naked with her childhood friend. “How did you learn to bake?”
His brows pinch like I just asked him to solve quantum physics. “Bake?”
Clearly words aren’t registering. “Yeah. You know. The delicious muffins we had for breakfast.”
He blinks, then drags a hand over his jaw. “Uh… You’re really thinking about muffins right now?”
“Distraction technique,” I admit. “Trying to focus on anything other than the fact that I just propositioned my friend.”
A deep chuckle rolls out of him. “If you figure it out, let me know.”
He turns his focus back to the road, but now his expression is unreadable. Is he thinking about the playoffs? Or the fact that in a few hours we’ll be doing the naked mambo together? My stomach tightens at the thought.