Sex Positive (Sex Positive #1)

One

Nash Hudson uses too much tongue.

This thought lands with a thud in Charlie’s gut while she tries convincing herself she wants his touch. His fingers roam under her sweater, floating across her waist and fanning up her rib cage, inching closer to her breasts, all while his tongue jabs erratically in her mouth.

She wants to like him—god, it would be so much easier if she lusted for him—but his hands are wrong, his body is wrong, his tongue is wrong.

Not that she’s had experience with a wide variety of tongues and hands and fingers, but she knows she’s not supposed to feel like crawling out of her skin when he rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

She’s not supposed to notice the TV remote digging into the small of her back, not supposed to be more interested in the true crime documentary playing on the TV screen than what Nash is doing with his mouth.

His hips mold to hers, his arousal obvious against her pelvis, and Charlie tenses when he reaches for the clasp of her bra, attempting to unhook it.

Next, he’ll squeeze her breasts in a way he believes she likes based on the accidental surprised gasp she released when he last tried it a few days ago.

But it wasn’t pleasurable, and she definitely does not have “nipple play” on her list of sexual acts she wants to try.

When his mouth shifts to her neck, he rumbles in her ear, “You feel so good,” before his hands skim down to the waistband of her jeans.

She arches against him, trying—trying so hard—to enjoy it, despite his failed attempt to get her off the last time she lay on this couch.

Despite how, when she instructed him where to apply pressure to her clit—right there—and how fast to go—slower, lighter, yes, perfect—he shushed her, telling her he knew what he was doing.

Five minutes later, she asked him to stop because she feared he’d rub her raw.

Now he swiftly unbuttons her jeans, and she’s not even embarrassed about her very unsexy pink cotton underwear, because what is there to be embarrassed about when she’s no longer in the moment?

When she’s imagining someone else’s hands, hands she’s tried blocking from her mind?

Those hands have never touched her like this, and yet they—along with a pair of broad shoulders and strong arms and a stupid, irritating smirk—still take up a distressingly large amount of space in her brain.

Nash’s mouth moves to her navel, and Charlie jumps; she was so lost in her ridiculous—foolish—thoughts, she didn’t notice his journey downward. Tugging off her jeans, he exposes her underwear.

“These are nice,” he murmurs with a wink. He runs his palms over her hips, his fingers hooking into her waistband.

“Nash—” she says, but he just hums before his hands move to unbutton his own jeans.

Something sharp and shivery races up her spine at the sight of his bulge, something uncertain—

“Nash, wait.”

His gaze flicks to hers, his hands freezing in the middle of pushing his jeans over his hips. With a sigh, he sits back on his heels. “What, Charlie?”

She doesn’t flinch at his tone, a testament to her profound control. Disappointment crackles through his body and his lips are pressed together, but Dr. Victoria Angelo’s voice chimes like a bell in her brain:

Consent can be taken away at any time.

She sits up. “Not tonight.” Her mouth is dry, her pulse loud and insistent in her ears. “I don’t want to do this tonight.”

Or any night, her brain adds, shutting the door on this failed experiment.

Nash glances away, running a hand through his thick, dark locks, his gaze directed toward the television.

His off-campus apartment is in the nicest complex Archwood has to offer; the majority of students who live here have wealthy parents who help with their rent.

A standard one-bedroom with an open-concept kitchen full of modern appliances, it’s decorated in a minimalist style with light gray walls, furniture from IKEA, and a Scarface poster on the wall opposite the television.

When she visited for the first time two weeks ago under the guise of studying together for biostats, Charlie knew what she was doing. She’d had her eye on Nash for weeks, and it was time to put her hypothesis to the test:

If she finds someone aesthetically pleasing and desirable, then losing her virginity will be more pleasurable and satisfying.

By the end of the night, her lips were swollen from the heavy make-out session she’d initiated, and she felt confident and desired and completely in control of the situation.

After the botched orgasm last time, however, Nash entered the less-than-desirable category, and Charlie was increasingly sure that continuing on this path toward sexual discovery would be neither pleasurable nor satisfying.

Nash faces her, tapping his fingers on his knees.

“Is everything okay?” he murmurs, his expression inscrutable.

“Yes, I just—” Charlie scrambles for an excuse while simultaneously knowing no is all the excuse she needs. But she’s in a man’s apartment and despite her earlier confidence, she is out of her depth.

She hates not knowing what she’s doing.

“I have a lot on my mind right now.” She runs a hand through her unruly curls. “You know, the biostats midterm is supposed to be a killer, and I’m in charge of the safe sex table at the union tomorrow, and…” Flashing him a smile, she shrugs. “I think it’s best we hold off.”

Nash nods, arching a brow. “Right, your little condom table.”

Charlie frowns, adjusting her shirt so her bra is no longer exposed. “It’s not a little condom table—”

Nash ignores her. “Can I ask you something?”

Charlie nods.

“Are you a virgin?”

Ice runs through her veins and her stomach lurches in surprise, but she keeps her face neutral.

Laughing, she asks, “What makes you say that?”

Nash shrugs. “Girls don’t usually say no to me.”

Charlie swallows around the sudden tightness in her throat. “Would it matter if I was?”

He stands and adjusts himself, not even bothering to hide it. “No, but it would certainly be odd considering how intensely you pursued me.”

His tone is unflattering, and her stomach twists with discomfort.

As if it’s a turnoff for her to pursue him.

“No,” she lies firmly and with a confidence she does not feel. “I’m not. But it’s not like virgins are any different from people who aren’t.”

Nash shrugs as if to say if you say so, and Charlie’s skin prickles. She stands, buttoning her jeans before tugging on her white Keds waiting at the door.

Nash leans against the kitchen island, observing her. “Okay, so who have you slept with?”

She grabs her coat from the kitchen barstool before facing him, her thoughts racing. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

He raises his brows, a slight lift to his lips. “Curious minds, Charlotte.”

Charlotte. God, she hates when people call her that. A stark reminder of her mother and all the myriad ways she used it to reprimand her.

Without thinking, and with a vitriol she can no longer contain, she snaps, “Wesley Quinn.”

The second his name passes her lips, she regrets it.

It doesn’t help that she was imagining him while Nash fondled her, a fantasy that would never come to pass.

As if Wes would ever agree to sleep with her.

As if her paltry seduction skills could ever pull the eyes of Wesley Quinn from the dozens of women who fall at his feet on a weekly basis.

Nash bursts into laughter. Her stomach curdles at the sound, at the derision in his tone when he says, “Little Quinny? Are you serious?”

Charlie throws her shoulders back, doubling down. “Yes. Why is that so funny?”

He shakes his head, but before she can move, his fingers clasp her wrist.

“Maybe I don’t know Wesley as well as I thought.” His lips curl into a wry smile. “How about we continue this tomorrow?”

Before she can answer, he presses his mouth to hers. Holding her against him, he slides his tongue between her lips before she can pull away. A chill creeps over her skin, revulsion settling in her gut.

“See you,” she says, not answering his question.

Something flashes in his eyes.

In the elevator, Charlie leans against the wall, exhaling, unease and irritation weighing heavy on her shoulders.

She was certain Nash was the right choice.

He’s tall and conventionally attractive, he’s intelligent, and she enjoyed their conversations about politics and books.

He’s experienced—or so she’s heard—increasing the likelihood of having an enjoyable first time.

But that proved to be untrue when his fingers started attacking her clit like a dog whose ball was stuck under the couch.

Not to mention his complete disregard when she explained the best way to get her off.

Maybe she’s tired. Maybe she’s so in her head about what it should feel like that she can’t accept what it most likely will feel like. Maybe her expectations are too high.

The elevator doors open to the main lobby with a ding. Gliding through them, she waves to the security guard manning the front desk where she signed in as Nash Hudson’s guest an hour ago, then slips out the main doors.

After she reviews the reasons for the failure of this experiment—fingers too rough, mouth too wet, unwilling to communicate—she returns to her metaphorical drawing board.

As she navigates her way down the well-lit sidewalk to her apartment, Wesley Quinn’s name flares in her mind like a neon sign, a different type of chill settling over her at the thought of having sex with him.

Why the fuck did she tell Nash she’d slept with him?

While she prides herself on her high level of intelligence and strong deductive reasoning skills—you don’t score a 178 on the LSAT without having some measure of both—sometimes, she will admit, she is very dumb.