Page 123 of Sex Positive

He’ll never forget the first time she went down on him, so eager to learn—he nearly came after thirty seconds. But then again, she’s always had that effect on him.

It was a week after the expo, and she’d just learned that they’d not only raised enough money to prevent the clinic from turning into a crisis pregnancy center but that they had enough funds to remodel the waiting room and add two additional exam rooms, something Victoria had wanted to do for years but had never had enough time or resources to accomplish. With the clinic closed for repairs after the fire, it was the perfect opportunity.

Charlie climbed on top of him and immediately set to removing his pants before he knew what was happening. He’ll always remember the way she looked at him with those impossible doe eyes and asked him with that perfect mouth to teach her how to get him off using her lips and tongue. He was more than happy to oblige, especially when he discovered how much she enjoyed the way he tangled his fingers in her curls and gently pulled.

She’s a fast learner, his marvelous, intelligent woman.

Her parents plan to visit on Sunday for a birthday lunch. While she won’t admit to it outright, he recognizes her anxiety by the way she goes quiet when he mentions it, picking at her cuticles and worrying her bottom lip. She speaks more with his own mother—weekly, he discovered a year into their relationship—than her own. But he can tell her parents are trying in their own way. Since she’s moved closer to her hometown, they’ve visited a few times, and even though they refuse to enter their apartment (“We live in sin, Wes”), Charlie said it’s the most time they’ve ever spent in Chicago.

While she’s trying to meet them halfway, she admitted late one night, lying in bed in the comfort of darkness, that she’s not sure she can ever truly forgive them for how they made her feel as a child.

He reassured her that was okay.

Their apartment is in a fourteen-floor complex with a doorman and plenty of young couples with dogs. Their one-bedroom contains the sofa from the apartment she shared with Syeda—for sentimentality’s sake, he told her when he insisted they bring it with them—a TV, several bookshelves, and a small kitchen table. He arrived home one day shortly after they moved to find she’d hung up a dozen-odd photos on the walls of their friends and the two of them.

“So we’ll always have them with us,” she explained with a shrug.

He’s never loved her more.

It’s the most a place has ever felt like home to him, but he suspects that’s largely due to the other person occupying the space.

Now she sets the box of treats on the counter before her post-work ritual of trading her work clothes for a sweater and leggings. Even though Chicago is clinging to the last gasp of summer, she prefers these items when lounging around their home.

He’s told her that he prefers her in fewer clothes, but she just rolls her eyes.

When she plops onto the couch with one of her binders from the office, she shoves her perpetually cold feet under his legs. He wraps his fingers around one ankle and drags his thumb down her arch.

“Quinn.” She attempts to pull away—her feet are astoundingly ticklish, something he discovered six months into their relationship and now exploits any chance he gets. “I need to review this before dinner.”

Well, that won’t do.

He plucks the binder from her hands and tosses it on the floor.

“Wes.”

“Ah, ah,” he scolds, shifting so he’s hovering over her, caging her in against the cushion. Her eyes darken even as she makes a valiant attempt to remain unaffected by his advances. “You don’t get to use ‘Wes’ when you’re mad at me. I only like it when you say it under veryspecificcircumstances.”

She glares. “We have two hours until dinner. Let me just go through—”

He kisses her, silencing her excuses. “I have a much better idea for how to spend two hours, Rogers.”

She shivers, and he groans. It will never get old how stubborn she is, thinking she can resist him, and the way she falls apart at his touch. His sweet, lovely woman.

“It’s my birthday. That means I can do whatever I want,” she argues in a whisper.

“I never liked that rule.” He continues his ministrations to her neck, relishing the soft, involuntary gasps coming from her mouth while his hands begin their explorations under her sweater.

“Why—why not?”

He pulls back enough to watch the flush spread across her cheeks and paint her neck, his favorite thing—it’s a sure sign that she’s about to surrender.

He tucks a curl behind her ear. “Because I should be allowed to unwrap a gift, too.”

She hardly has time to roll her eyes before he presses his mouth to hers, where he wants it almost always. He wants to make her feel good, wants to see her undone.

He slides her leggings down over her hips and settles himself between her thighs. He’ll never tire of the noises she makes, the whimpers and whines when he first touches her, the moans she releases as she gets closer. How wet she is around his fingers, the way she tastes on his tongue. How she tangles her fingers in his hair, how he knows she loves his hair, loves grinding against his mouth.

He takes his time with her, whispering how he loves her, how good she is, how beautiful, stunning, electric she is. How he can’t get enough of her. How she makes him so hard.