Chapter 2: Lesson One: Look, Don’t Touch

Exactly one week later, Thursday night again. Dad’s car had barely cleared the driveway when I stood in my bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers, the fabric already tented obscenely. My heart slammed so hard against my ribs I could feel the pulse in my cock, a thick, steady throb that hadn’t stopped since last Thursday. I’d replayed every second of her watching me cum—her calm smile, the salty warmth of her bare foot against my lips, the way she’d whispered that promise. Ten agonizing minutes ticked by on my phone before the soft knock came.

I opened the door and there she was.

Laura stood in the hallway in a short, silky black robe that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. Her hair was down for the first time I could remember, dark blonde waves still slightly damp from the shower, curling softly against her shoulders. No makeup. Just raw, breathtaking beauty—those faint tan lines peeking at the deep V of the robe’s neckline, the natural flush high on her cheekbones. She smelled like warm vanilla and fresh lotion, clean and intoxicating, nothing like the post-run salt from last week. Her eyes met mine, dark and knowing, and without a single word she took my hand.

Her fingers laced through mine, warm and sure, and she led me silently down the hall to the master bedroom. The door clicked shut behind us. She turned the lock with a soft snick that sent electricity racing up my spine. The room was already glowing—strawberry candle flickering on the nightstand, clean sheets turned down, the air thick with her perfume and that sweet strawberry warmth. She faced me, lips curved in the smallest smile, and let the robe fall open.

Then she shrugged it off her shoulders in one fluid motion.

It pooled at her feet like liquid night, and my breath caught hard in my throat. Her hair was down tonight — the first time I could remember seeing it that way — dark blonde waves still slightly damp from the shower.

She stood completely naked, letting me drink her in. Her C-cup breasts sat high and firm on her chest, perfectly rounded, the small dark-pink nipples already stiff and begging for attention. The soft curve of her toned runner’s stomach drew my eyes downward, that faint V-line carved from years of miles, disappearing into a neat, trimmed landing strip of dark-blonde hair that pointed straight to heaven. Below it, her smooth, shaved lips were already glistening, puffy and slick with arousal, the inner folds a delicate, flushed pink that made my mouth water. Her powerful thighs—thick, sculpted, the kind that could squeeze the life out of me—flexed subtly as she shifted her weight, and lower still, her perfect runner’s feet were bare, slightly arched, toes painted that same soft pink I’d tasted last week. The faint tan lines framed every inch of her like a gift wrapped just for me. She was breathtaking. Athletic. Feminine. Mine to look at, but not yet to touch.