Act on Instinct (Mission to Serve #1)

Chapter 1

Nairie

The plush leather couch enveloped us as we embraced.

It was smooth as butter and the color of cognac.

A faint squelching sound escaped the cushions as Luke ran his hands up and down my waist. I stared up at his piercing blue eyes and tried to pretend I wasn’t a twenty-three-year-old virgin.

Luke brushed my long, dark hair aside and nibbled on my neck.

I looked around his apartment as I tried to calm my nerves. His meticulously curated decor and self-portraits surrounded me like I was in a museum.

I rolled my eyes at the Voted Best Looking Influencer of the Year award. Why was I here again?

The first time I saw Luke, he walked in as the nude model for my art class, and my jaw dropped like a cartoon wolf.

His expensive cologne was attractive at first. A blend of champagne and sandalwood filled the studio like an Abercrombie store. It was suffocating now that we were horizontal and three inches apart.

So I tried breathing “sexily” through my mouth—parted lips, shaken whimpers, and just the right amount of teeth to avoid looking like a disgruntled badger.

I trailed my fingers across his muscular arms, enjoying the feel of his smooth, tan skin until I reached his tattooed neck and read the script—Guts, Glory, and Ganja.

Luke inched his hands over my breasts and lightly squeezed.

The feeling of another person touching me like this was jarring, but I took it in stride. I could handle my boobs getting squeezed.

Wait, what is he . . . Is he kneading them?

Luke stretched his arms forward and kneaded his hands up and down my boobs like a kitty cat.

He bit his lip and looked into my eyes. “Yeah, you like that?”

He seemed so positive this was pleasing me that I half believed it was.

I cleared my throat. “Uh . . . yeah. It’s . . . it’s great.”

Luke chuckled softly and inched his face closer to mine.

In preparation for tonight, I’d studied every make-out tutorial on the internet like it was one of my business exams from school. I made cue cards and practiced on my teddy bear, Fatoosh (fah-toosh)—a gift from my grandmother and now a tool for sexual exploitation.

But before I could make all the necessary adjustments, Luke moved toward my ear, letting his tongue take a quick dip.

I wiped my ear on my shoulder in disgust. “Um, maybe we can just kiss like normal?”

Luke looked confused but smiled. “You’re kind of old-fashioned, huh?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“That’s cute,” he chuckled.

Maybe this was a mistake. I never thought Luke would be a terrible kisser.

Sure, he had lame tattoos with absolutely no meaning, like paw prints of a raccoon he claimed was his spirit animal during a Coachella acid trip.

And he had more highlights in his hair than I did.

We also had nothing in common.

Okay, I should go. I was about to excuse myself, but Luke pulled off his shirt.

Ah, I remember now.

The man was an Instagram model sculpted by the gods.

Luke ran his hand through his coiffed hair and winked. “Let me put on some music before we get into it.”

He sauntered to his record player, which was just a Bluetooth speaker. Trance music filled the room. The synthesizers and bass vibrated, giving me a slight headache. Out of nowhere, Luke turned around wearing gloves with LED lights glowing from the fingertips.

He started flipping and twirling his hands fervently to the beat of the music as he stared at me intently from across the room.

Never. Breaking. Eye contact.

“Uh . . .”

He put his index finger against his lips. “Just watch.”

He bit his lip and twirled his fingers with passion, getting closer and closer. Pretty soon, his crotch was thrusting to the music in front of my face. If I were on The Office right now, I’d break the fourth wall and look at the camera with utter disappointment at how my life got to this point.

“Pretty cool, right?”

Discombobulated from the bright light, I nodded and turned away. “Yes. It’s fulfilling every EDM fantasy I’ve ever had. But maybe we can take a break?”

Luke paused. “I know what this is about. You must be a little nervous.”

I looked up at him in confusion. He stopped his little hand dance and sat next to me.

“It can be intimidating being with me. I’m successful, young, and attractive, with a bright future. But I promise I’ve still got my insecurities.”

I highly doubted it but asked nonetheless. “Really? Like what?”

“I’m always worried people will only see me as an Instagram model.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“People should know I can sell gummy vitamins too.”

I held back a snort. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I want them to know I can do protein powder ads, maybe even fit teas.”

“That’s very noble . . .”

Luke booped my nose with his glowing fingertip.

He continued to stare at me and breathed in deeply, brushing his lit fingertip across my cheek. “I gotta say, when you first came into class, I thought you were modeling with me.”

I was taking my first official art class. I’d been self-taught at a young age and finally got the courage to get some real-world experience.

The day I met Luke, I couldn’t deny he was extremely attractive. He was an easy figure to draw—a bright shock of blue eyes, a perfectly straight nose, and a well-endowed package.

Frankly, I was surprised he’d asked for my number after class. I wasn’t used to attention from men, especially ones that looked like Luke, and was flattered. I was excited at the thought of losing my virginity to him before he started talking.

“This is what I wanted to do when I first laid eyes on you.” Luke moved in, and I held my breath.

His tongue plunged into my mouth. I tried to keep up with his motions but he was so erratic—when he went left, I’d go right. When his tongue would swirl, mine would retreat.

Luke wrapped his hand around the base of my head as he deepened the kiss.

Loud moans emanated from his mouth.

In a panic, I mimicked his noises, not knowing what else to do. We were like two seals making noisy, clumsy love.

I started reflecting on every decision that had led me here.

Suddenly, he pulled away with a satisfied smile. “God, you’re incredible.”

Luke continued, and ever determined to have my first make-out session not be an utter failure, I stuck it out for another ten minutes.

Finally pulling away, I placed a hand on his chest. “I should get going. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

He looked like a disappointed kitten. “Are you sure? I haven’t even shown you the bedroom yet. I just set up some color-changing LED lights.”

“Maybe next time. Thank you for the drink and . . . this.” I motioned between us.

Luke gave a satisfied grin. “You’re welcome, peaches.”

Bleh. I held back a wince. He gave me the nickname after I wore a peach-colored dress one time. It was sickeningly sweet, and I had to get out of there before death by cringe.

During the Uber ride home, I closed my eyes and let the warm summer wind kiss my skin.

The air smelled like pavement and jasmine flowers as the car zipped through the gritty Los Angeles streets.

Is this what my parents left the Middle East for?

To have their valedictorian daughter kissed terribly by an Instagram-influencing nitwit wearing light-up gloves?

Sighing, I pulled out my notebook and pen and started doodling. The thought of seeing Luke in class for the next six weeks was anxiety inducing.

My brain ran wild with questions. Would the kissing improve, or would I be subjected to another round of tongue lashings? If the kissing was this bad, then how would the sex be? Would he keep the gloves on during sex?

But my late-onset virginity stressed me out the most. So far, Luke was my only contender and guaranteed to make my first experience memorable in all the wrong ways.

At first, my abstinence was because sex simply never interested me.

The boys in school were gross, and I was dealing with some serious self-confidence issues.

It wasn’t until near the end of college that I started investing more in myself.

I focused on a diet that made me happy, a doable gym routine, and a style that made me feel confident in my skin.

But by the time I was ready to date, I found out men do not like virgins. They want a virgin with escort-level sex skills.

I was far from that and felt like a failure even though I did everything right. I got a sensible business degree, I was a selfless daughter, and I never slept around. But in the process, my dreams and desires were slipping away.

My nervous scribbling indented the paper, almost poking a hole through the other side. I was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. I didn’t even realize what I was drawing.

A tumultuous sea crashing against jagged cliffs lay before me. I imagined standing on those cliffs in front of the endless sea, the spray of the ocean waves lightly sprinkling my face, the wind flowing through my hair as if it was a sail waving out to other ships.

I had never been anywhere like that. I’d never felt that freedom firsthand, but I could imagine it, so I could draw it.

Maybe when things slowed down at work, I could finally travel.

My parents didn’t take kindly to my plans of exploration beyond our Los Angeles home.

They were traditional in a way where children stayed close to their parents until DEATH.

It wasn’t in Armenian culture for girls to leave their parents’ house, even if they were old enough. Unless they were married of course.

So I lived with them until my best friend Elspeth needed my help.

Elspeth’s mom, Lindsey, was diagnosed with cancer, and it had gotten worse this past year.

Since Elspeth’s father abandoned them when she was seven and her two half brothers lived across the world, I moved in to help take care of her.

Gaining independence from my parents was the hardest thing I’d done. So, instead of asking for permission, I packed my things and moved my stuff to Elspeth’s before breaking the news to them over dinner. There was yelling, tears, and the silent treatment, but I did it.

As a compromise, I still slept at home on certain days of the week.

The back-and-forth trips were exhausting, but disappointing them was my worst fear.

I also promised to move back in once the time came, but I was putting it off for as long as possible.

I’d hoped they’d get used to the feeling of me being more independent, but anytime someone would ask, they’d still assure them I was moving back any day now.

It was a heavy burden being the only child and constantly feeling guilty for wanting to be selfish.

They did so much for me. They came to America with nothing and gave me a good life, but it frayed my nerves.

Taking the art class was the closest thing to feeling the freedom I just captured on the page.

I finally had something of my own. But the most surprising discovery was the utter joy I felt at the possibility of failure.

Failing this class didn’t affect my degree or disappoint my parents.

It was for the pure fun of it, and if failure happened, it happened.

I’d continue to draw anyway, and life would go on. It was bliss.