Faking It in Alaska

You’re taking too long, Izzy. Say something sexy.

Straddling Trace, staring into his eyes, she whispered, “It’s been over a year since I’ve done this.”

Trace squeezed her butt encouragingly. “It’s like riding a bike.”

A cringeworthy memory snuck into her mind. “The last time I rode a bike it was too big for me. I lost control, crashed into my date, and sprained his thumb.”

His laugh shook his whole body, jostled his dick between her legs like a giant tease. “Izzy, I swear nothing you’re about to ride is too big for you, nobody’s going to crash, and nothing’s going to get sprained. Take it as slow as you want. Take as much as you want. It’s all up to you.”

She wished she shared his confidence. What if after all this buildup, she couldn’t come. What if he couldn’t? She was sinking too deep into her own head, and she knew it. What if the whole thing was a fail because of her? She might burst into bitter tears right there in his bed. Men loved that, didn’t they? Stalling, she looked left, then right, then back at him. “Got any training wheels around here?”

His lips quirked, but then he furrowed his brows and leveled a scowl on her. “Isabelle.”

“What?”

“Get on my dick. Now.”