Free Adrian Lessons by L.A Rose

particular juncture in my novel,” she intones like a radio announcer, “Jonathan and his beloved have just shared a picnic when the wind takes Amelia’s hat and blows it into the fountain. The hat was a gift from her grandmother, and she runs in after it. Cleo?”
    Cleo dances from foot to foot. “You’re seriously making me go into this fountain?”
    Marie lays a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Yes.”
    Cleo stomps toward the fountain, muttering to herself adorably. I catch the words “evil” and “tacos.” As she steels herself to take a step into the water, Marie turns toward me.
    “It’s been a month for her,” she whispers. “I honestly think she’s forgotten what it feels like to be touched and that’s why she can’t write about it. Inspire her, okay? I’m going to go back to the car and wait.”
    She doesn’t need to ask me twice.
    I step into the water after Cleo. She’s already ankle deep, arms crossed nervously. As I approach, she lets them fall to her sides, unconsciously asking me to come closer. I obey, the surprisingly not-too-cold water swishing up to my shins.
    It’s strange, looking at her so closely after so many years of imagination. My mind smoothed over the freckles, and her large earlobes, and the tiny cowlick at her temple. My mind got rid of everything that made her real and whole, turned her into a fantasy figure. The real thing is so much better. I wonder—what else about her is different from my fantasy?
    There’s a smattering of goosebumps on her arms, and whether she’s aware of it or not, her nipples have risen to greet me through the thin fabric of her shirt. The horny side of my brain beats the philosophical side into submission with a tire iron.
    You know how people in cartoons have a good angel and a bad angel on each shoulder? I have a horny angel and a philosophical angel.
    The horny angel gets pretty violent. I’ve been meaning to talk to him about that.
    “I couldn’t let you get wet out here all by yourself,” I murmur, moving closer to Cleo. I want to rip her clothes off and run my hands all over her naked body—that’s a given—but the urge that surprises me, the urge that’s just as strong, is the one that tells me to pull her body into mine and make sure she’s warm enough. “I want to be the one making that happen.”
    Her sharp intake of breath gratifies me.
    “Do you use that on all the girls you hook up with, or just the ones you simulate it with?” she asks.
    I step closer. She stiffens but doesn’t move away. Her eyes betray her, roving over my body with pure longing. “Just the ones I find standing in a fountain at night in September.”
    “Any girl crazy enough to jump into a fountain just to get her roommate to stop being mad at her probably isn’t one you want to hook up with, simulated or otherwise.”
    I’m standing so close now that I can feel her breath on my neck. She has to look up to meet my eyes, her chin tilted back just slightly. Defiance mixes with desire.
    “You have no idea how badly I want you,” I murmur. She probably thinks I’m laying it on too thick, and maybe I am, but what she doesn’t know is how honest these words are. I’ve craved her ever since that night four years ago.
    “You should know I’m just humoring Marie.” Her voice has gone low, so quiet that nobody can hear us but the wind. But her eyes burn into mine. “This isn’t going to work. You can try, but—”
    I lean forward, slip my hand around the back of her neck, and kiss her.
    She tenses in brief shock, but as I pull her lower lip into my mouth and then release it, she goes limp all over and shudders. A tiny “oh” escapes her. Pure need erupts in my stomach and boils all the way down to my knees. I’m instantly hard, hard and aching. But I pull back.
    “This is okay?” I breathe into her mouth.
    “It’s not…the worst thing ever,” she manages, her words bumping into each other and stumbling. “I mean. It’s not the least