My Naked Valentine

 I have been writing a lot of these stories lately but I figured I had to do one for Valentine's Day so I thought wouldn't it be interesting if you had some kind of Valentine's Day date where you go on a blind date more or less where you are both naked but the kicker is that the woman gets to pick which guy she wants to be with and then he pretty much just sees who he ends up with so it results in awkward naked embarrassment, but I thought this was sort of a nicer story about social awkwardness once again bringing people together.

My Naked Valentine
"You ever notice how pigeons just *stare* at you?" Brent tossed a fry toward the sidewalk, watching three birds tilt their heads in unison. "Like they're judging every life choice that led you to this exact moment."
    His friend Marco snorted into his coffee. "Bro, you're projecting. Nobody cares that you're eating shitty diner food alone on February 13th." He paused. "Except maybe your future self when you're still single tomorrow."
    Brent flipped him off just as his phone buzzed. A dating app notification—another automated "Boost your chances this Valentine's!" reminder. He swiped it away with more force than necessary. "Alright, Cupid. What's your genius plan? Spray paint myself gold and stand outside Whole Foods with a 'Free Samples' sign?"
    Marco leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Better. Naked Valentines."
    "The fuck is that, some kind of strip Scrabble?"
    "Legit service. You show up at this swanky loft, both of you ditch the clothes immediately, boom—instant icebreaker." Marco scrolled through his phone before shoving it across the table. The screen showed a minimalist website with cursive text: *No Fabric. No Filters. No Regrets.*
    Brent's laugh died when he noticed the pricing. "Two hundred bucks for a blind date where I get frostbite on my dick?"
    "Think about it," Marco said, stabbing a finger at him. "No awkward 'do I go for the hug?' nonsense. No wondering if she's padding her bra. Just..." He made a chef's kiss motion. "Pure, unfiltered human connection."
    Brent stared at the pigeons now fighting over his abandoned fry. One ruffled its feathers aggressively. It felt like a sign.
    Brent's thumb hovered over the payment button, the "$199.00" glaring up at him like an accusation. "So let me get this straight," he said, squinting at Marco's phone. "I pay two hundred bucks to stand in a room full of other naked dudes while women—who are *also* naked—just... shop around?" The pigeon closest to their table cooed loudly, as if laughing at him.
    Marco grinned, tapping the screen. "Think of it like a farmer's market, but the produce is you, bro. And hey, at least you know she's into what she sees before the small talk starts." He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "No bad lighting, no angles, no 'oh shit she looked way different in her pics'—just raw, unfiltered vibes."
    Brent exhaled sharply through his nose. The idea of being lined up like a buffet of dick and disappointment made his stomach twist, but Marco had a point. It was brutally efficient. No wasted time, no lies, no last-minute "I forgot my wallet" escapes. Just naked honesty—literally. He imagined some faceless woman circling him like a museum exhibit, prodding at his love handles while he stood there like a goddamn mannequin. "What if I get hard?" he blurted.
    Marco's cackle turned heads at the next table. "That's the *point*, dumbass. If you don't, they've got a no-refund policy."
    The confirmation email hit Brent's inbox before he could talk himself out of it. *Welcome to Naked Valentines. Location disclosed 1 hour prior to event. Bring ID, condoms, and an open mind.* He groaned, rubbing his temples. "I’m gonna regret this."
    By 8 PM, he was standing in a dimly lit loft that smelled like sandalwood and poor decisions, clutching a complimentary glass of champagne like it was a lifeline. A velvet curtain separated the "waiting area" (read: meat locker) from wherever the women were. The other guys shifted awkwardly, towels slung around their waists, all trying *very* hard not to make eye contact. Brent downed his drink in one go.
    Then the curtain parted.
    A woman—tall, sharp-eyed, gloriously *not* naked—stepped through with a clipboard. "Gentlemen," she announced, "the selection begins in five. Remember: confidence is key, but don’t be *that guy* who does jumping jacks to show off." One dude in the back immediately stopped mid-stretch.
    Brent’s stomach dropped. This was worse than he’d imagined. He was about to be judged like a fucking show pony. Marco’s voice echoed in his head: *She picked you naked. That means she wants you.* But what if she took one look and went, *Oh. Oh no.*
    The lights flickered. The woman smiled. "Good luck."
    The curtain closed. Somewhere beyond it, laughter bubbled up—warm, bright, terrifying. Brent swallowed. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. *Too late to run now.*
    The curtain hadn’t just closed—it had locked him into a nightmare. Brent stood there, towel clinging to his hips, acutely aware of the security camera blinking in the corner. Somewhere beyond the plush fabric, women were probably laughing at his awkward posture, his too-pale thighs, the way his shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold into himself. *Christ*, he thought, *this is like being the last pickle at the deli counter.*
    A screen flickered to life on the wall opposite him, displaying a single line of text: *Selection in progress. Please remain patient.* Below it, a timer counted down from five minutes. Brent’s palms slicked with sweat. He wiped them on his towel, then immediately regretted it. Now he’d have to explain the damp handshake. *"Sorry, I was marinating."*
    The screen updated suddenly: *Participant #17 selected.* A collective groan rose from the other men. Brent’s stomach twisted. Seventeen was Marco’s stupid lucky number, the one he’d insisted Brent use when signing up. *Of fucking course.* His phone buzzed in the pile of his folded clothes.
    **Unknown Number:** *Congratulations. Suite B in 5 minutes. She chose you.*
    The words *she chose you* looped in his head like a bad pop song. Who the hell was *she*? Some avant-garde artist who collected awkward men like taxidermy? A divorcee with a thing for guys who sweat through towels? His brain helpfully supplied an image of a woman in a lab coat, taking notes while he stood on a turntable. *Subject exhibits excessive self-awareness. Fascinating.*
    A staff member—same clipboard woman, now wearing a headset—appeared to usher him down a hallway. Suite B’s door was slightly ajar, the light inside warm and low. Brent hesitated. This was it. No clothes, no pretense, just... whatever came next. He pushed the door open.
    The room was empty.
    Well, not *empty*—there was a plush rug, a chaise lounge, and a tray with two glasses of champagne. But no woman. No *her*. Brent hovered in the doorway, torn between relief and insult. Had she bailed? Taken one look at the live feed and noped out? He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
    Then he saw it. A note propped against the champagne flute.
    *Turn around.*
    Brent’s spine went rigid. This felt like the start of a horror movie. Slowly, he turned.
    The wall behind him wasn’t a wall at all—it was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. And reflected in it, standing in the doorway of what he now realized was an adjoining room, was *her*.
    Taller than he’d expected. Dark hair twisted into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was naked, sure, but the way she leaned against the doorframe—one hip cocked, arms crossed—was so *casual* it threw him. Like this was a Tuesday. Like *he* was the one out of place.
    “You’re staring,” she said. Her voice was lower than he’d imagined, with a rasp that suggested too many cigarettes or too much laughter.
    Brent’s mouth opened. Closed. *Say something clever. Anything.* What came out was: “I think I left my confidence in my pants.”
    She grinned. “Good. I hate guys who fake it.” Then she pushed off the doorframe and walked toward him, completely at ease in her skin, while Brent stood there like a malfunctioning mannequin.
    The worst part? She was *beautiful*. Not in a polished, airbrushed way, but in the way a well-loved book is beautiful—creased in places, underlined in others, the spine cracked from being opened too often. Brent’s throat went dry.
    She stopped just shy of touching him, her eyes scanning his face. “You’re nervous.”
    “I’ve never been picked before,” he admitted.
    Her smile softened. “Then I guess we’re even.” She reached past him for the champagne, her arm brushing his chest. “Because I’ve never done the picking.”
    Brent exhaled. Maybe Marco was right about one thing: naked honesty *was* simpler.
    Now he just had to remember how to breathe.
    Brent's brain short-circuited. She was *right there*, all smooth skin and sharp angles, smelling like vanilla and something smokier—whiskey, maybe, or the ghost of last night’s bonfire. Her hips had this sway when she walked that made his throat click. *Christ.* She’d picked *him*. Out of all the guys lined up like a damn deli counter, she’d pointed at his sad, sweaty self and gone, *Yeah, that one.* The thought was equal parts flattering and terrifying.
    She handed him a champagne flute, her fingers brushing his. “You’re overthinking,” she said, tilting her head. A loose curl escaped her bun, clinging to her collarbone. Brent’s gaze tracked it like a fucking bloodhound. “It’s just skin.”
    *Just skin.* Right. Except her skin was *everywhere*, and his brain kept stuttering over the details—the faint stretch marks on her thighs, the way her ribs moved when she breathed, the dark smudge of mascara under one eye like she’d rubbed it tiredly in the car. She wasn’t polished. She was *real*. And she was watching him with this amused little smirk, like she knew exactly how hard his pulse was hammering in his neck.
    “I’m, uh—” Brent’s voice cracked. He took a gulp of champagne, bubbles scraping his throat. “New to this.”
    “Obviously.” She laughed, low and rich, and perched on the chaise lounge, one leg tucked under her. The position highlighted the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine. Brent’s fingers twitched. He wanted to map her with his palms. “But you’re cute when you’re nervous.”
    *Cute.* He’d been called a lot of things—*lanky*, *goofy*, *that guy who tripped on the escalator*—but never *cute* while buck-ass naked. His face heated. Worse, he could *feel* his body responding, blood rushing south like it had a one-track mind. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. What was the protocol here? *Hey, sorry about the boner, it’s not you, it’s the existential dread.*
    She set her glass down with a *clink*. “Relax. I don’t bite.” A pause. “Unless you’re into that.”
    Brent choked.
    Her grin widened. “Kidding. Mostly.” She stretched, arms over her head, and Brent’s brain flatlined. Every freckle, every scar—she wore them like jewelry. Meanwhile, he was two seconds away from sweating through his kneecaps.
    “So,” she said, leaning forward. Her hair swung, brushing his knee. “You gonna sit, or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”
    Brent dropped onto the chaise so fast it creaked. Their thighs touched. Her skin was warm.
    She studied him, eyes flicking over his face. “You have nice hands,” she said suddenly.
    He blinked. “My *hands*?”
    “Mm.” She traced a finger over his knuckle, and his breath hitched. “Artists’ hands. You play guitar?”
    “Uh. Piano. When I was twelve.”
    “Knew it.” She looked absurdly pleased with herself. “I always go for the musicians.”
    Brent’s brain snagged on *always*. How many naked dudes had she appraised like this? Was there a leaderboard? His stomach did a weird flip.
    She must’ve seen it on his face. “Jealous?”
    “No,” he lied.
    She hummed, unconvinced, and leaned closer. Her breath tickled his jaw. “Don’t be. They weren’t half as interesting as you.”
    Brent’s heart punched his ribs. *Interesting.* Not *hot*, not *ripped*—*interesting*. Like she’d seen past the bare skin to whatever scrambled mess lay beneath. The thought loosened something in his chest.
    Then her teeth grazed his earlobe, and every coherent thought evaporated.
    “Still nervous?” she murmured.
    Brent swallowed. “What do you think?”
    She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her pupils were huge. “I think,” she said slowly, “you’re gonna remember this Valentine’s Day.”
    And god help him, she was right.
    Brent's fingers twitched against his thighs, unsure where to rest—on his knees? Clasped together like a nervous schoolboy? "I don't... know how to do this," he admitted, watching her eyelashes catch the low light as she blinked up at him.
    She exhaled through her nose, a quiet laugh. "You're *doing* it," she said, leaning back on her palms. The movement made her collarbones sharpen, her stomach dip. "Just breathe. First-timers always overthink."
    "I haven't dated in... a while," Brent blurted, then immediately wanted to kick himself. Why the hell was he admitting this now, naked and exposed in every possible way?
    But she just tilted her head, a slow smile spreading. "That’s nice." Her voice was syrup-thick, deliberate. When she shifted her weight, her hips rolled in a way that made his breath hitch. "Means you were waiting for the right person."
    Brent’s pulse stuttered. The way she said it—like *right person* was a challenge, not a consolation—sent heat licking down his spine. He was achingly aware of every inch of space between them, how her knee had somehow brushed his without either of them moving.
    She noticed. Of course she did. Her gaze flicked down, then back up, her smirk turning wicked. "See? You're getting the hang of it already."
    Brent swallowed hard. This woman—*god*, she was a force. Every word, every gesture was calibrated to unravel him, and she did it effortlessly, like she could read the tension coiled in his shoulders and knew exactly where to press to make him snap.
    "You're—" His voice cracked. He tried again. "You're good at this."
    "Mm." She reached out, tracing a idle circle on his knee that made his muscles jump. "I like beginners. Less baggage. More..." Her thumb slid higher. "*Reaction*."
    Brent's brain shorted out. He was a live wire, every nerve ending sparking under her touch. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. And the worst part? She knew it. Watched the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers dug into the chaise, and *enjoyed* it.
    Then, just as suddenly, she pulled back. "So," she said, like they were discussing the weather, "you play piano?"
    The whiplash made him dizzy. "Wh—*what*?"
    "You mentioned it earlier." She plucked her champagne flute off the tray, swirling the liquid. "What kind?"
    Brent stared. She’d reduced him to a trembling mess, and now she wanted to talk *music*? But her expression was genuine, curious even. As if she actually wanted to know.
    "Uh. Classical, mostly." He ran a hand through his hair, forcing his lungs to work. "My mom made me take lessons. Hated it until I realized it impressed girls at parties."
    She grinned. "See? Now we're getting somewhere." Setting her glass down, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me more."
    Her breath was warm against his ear. Brent shivered. This wasn’t small talk—it was a trap. A delicious, dizzying trap. Every answer he gave, every confession, she filed away like ammunition. And the terrifying thing? He wanted to hand her the bullets.
    So he did.
    "Beethoven’s *Moonlight Sonata*," he admitted. "Third movement. I learned it because a girl in my bio class said it sounded like a storm."
    She hummed, low and approving. "Romantic." Her fingers trailed up his arm. "Play it for me sometime."
    The implication—*sometime*, not *now*, not *never*—sent his heart into overdrive. Brent turned his head, catching her gaze. "Yeah?"
    She held it, unflinching. "Yeah."
    And just like that, the air shifted. This wasn’t just a naked date anymore. This was a promise.
    Then her teeth grazed his earlobe, and every coherent thought dissolved.
    Brent's fingers dug into the chaise as she stretched, her spine arching like a cat's. "I've done this—what, six times now?" She rolled her shoulders, utterly at ease in her skin. "It's nice, you know? Progressive. Women get to choose. No awkward first moves, no guessing games." She tilted her head, studying him. "Must be nice for you guys too, right? No pressure."
    Brent nearly choked. *No pressure?* His entire body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming under the weight of her gaze. He'd never felt more sexual tension in his life—it coiled in his gut, thick and hot, tightening with every casual shift of her hips. She swiveled slightly on the chaise, her knee brushing his thigh again, and his breath hitched.
    She noticed, of course. Her smirk deepened. "You're thinking too hard," she murmured, trailing a fingertip down his forearm. "It's just bodies. No different than trying on clothes."
    *Bullshit.* Trying on clothes didn't make his pulse hammer in his throat. Trying on clothes didn't leave him hyper-aware of every inch of space between them, of the way her collarbone caught the light when she laughed. But he nodded anyway, because what else was he supposed to do? Admit he was two seconds away from combusting?
    She leaned closer, her hair brushing his shoulder. "Though," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I usually don't *keep* the clothes."
    Brent's brain shorted out.
    Before he could formulate a response—not that he had one—she straightened, stretching her arms overhead with a sigh. "So," she said, like they were discussing the weather, "you ever been to one of these things before?"
    He shook his head, mute.
    "Hmm." Her gaze raked over him, slow and deliberate. "Shame. You've got potential."
    Potential for *what*? Brent wanted to ask, but his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. Potential to spontaneously combust? Potential to embarrass himself spectacularly?
    She didn't elaborate. Instead, she reached for her champagne, taking a slow sip. The glass left her lips slightly damp, and Brent's focus zeroed in on the way her throat moved as she swallowed.
    "You're staring," she said, setting the glass down.
    "Sorry," Brent muttered, dragging his gaze away.
    "Don't be." She leaned in, so close her breath ghosted over his cheek. "I like it."
    His heart slammed against his ribs.
    Then, just as suddenly, she pulled back, swinging her legs off the chaise. "So," she said, standing in one fluid motion, "you wanna get out of here?"
    Brent blinked. "What?"
    She grinned down at him, all sharp edges and confidence. "This place is cute, but"—she gestured to the sterile loft—"kinda lacks atmosphere, don't you think?"
    He stared. Was this a test? A trick? "You mean... leave? Like, *leave* leave?"
    She laughed, low and rich. "Yeah, *leave* leave. Unless you'd rather stay here and get judged by more strangers?"
    The thought made his stomach twist. But the alternative—following this woman, this *force of nature*, out into the real world—was equally terrifying.
    She arched a brow. "Well?"
    Brent exhaled. Then, before he could overthink it, he stood. "Yeah. Let's go."
    "There's a lounge," she said, fingers lacing through his like it was nothing, like they'd done this a hundred times. "Pool, hot tub, the works. Figured if we're not the only ones naked, it might—" She squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing his knuckle. "—take the edge off."
    Brent's brain scrambled. More naked people? That was supposed to *help*? But she was already tugging him forward, her stride confident, her hips swaying like this was a Sunday stroll. He followed numbly, his pulse hammering in his throat.
    The lounge was a cavern of low lighting and lower inhibitions. A dozen bodies lounged by the pool, their laughter bouncing off the water. Some played chess on floating boards, their knees bumping under the surface. Others clustered around the hot tub, steam curling around their shoulders. No one glanced their way. No one cared.
    She led him to a secluded booth in the restaurant area, where the lighting was just dim enough to feel intimate but bright enough to see the freckle just above her left hip. Brent's fingers twitched against the tablecloth—real fabric, a small mercy—as she slid into the booth opposite him.
    "You're thinking again," she said, tracing the rim of her water glass. Condensation dripped down her fingers.
    "Kind of hard not to," Brent admitted. His thighs stuck to the leather seat. He shifted, then froze when the sound was obscenely loud.
    She grinned, leaning forward. Her elbows rested on the table, her shoulders rolling with the motion. "Look around. Nobody gives a shit."
    He did. A couple two tables over fed each other sushi off naked fingertips. A group by the bar toasted with martinis, their laughter easy, unselfconscious. And here he was, sweating through his kneecaps like a middle schooler at his first dance.
    She kicked him under the table—not hard, just enough to snap his attention back. "Hey." Her voice was softer now, almost gentle. "It's just skin."
    "Yeah, but—" Brent gestured vaguely at himself, then her, then the room. "You're so... good at this."
    "And you will be too." She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. "Just stop trying to *perform*. That's the whole point of tonight, remember? No pretending."
    A server appeared then, mercifully dressed in a sleek black apron that covered the essentials. Brent's grip tightened on the menu—*also* mercifully present—until the laminate creaked.
    "Two glasses of the Malbec," she said, without looking up. Then, to Brent: "Unless you want something stronger?"
    He shook his head. Wine was fine. Wine was safe. Wine didn't require him to form coherent sentences.
    The server nodded and vanished.
    She stretched her arms overhead, the movement effortless, unashamed. The booth's overhead light caught the dip of her waist, the curve of her ribs. Brent's throat went dry.
    "You're staring again," she murmured.
    "Sorry."
    "Don't be." Her grin turned wicked. "I *like* when you stare."
    The server returned with their wine. She took a sip, her lips staining dark, then set the glass down with a *click*. "So," she said, leaning in. "Tell me something real."
    Brent blinked. "What?"
    "Something true. No small talk." Her foot brushed his under the table. "I already know what you look like naked. Now I wanna know the rest."
    His pulse stuttered. This wasn't just nakedness anymore—this was *nakedness*. The kind that stripped you bare in ways fabric could never cover.
    She waited, her gaze steady.
    Brent exhaled. Then, before he could overthink it, he told her the truth.
    Brent's fingers traced the condensation on his wine glass. "I never thought I'd spend Valentine's Day naked in public with a stranger," he admitted. The words tasted strange—too honest, too raw—but her expectant look pulled them out of him. "This was my idiot friend's idea. Marco's convinced stripping down solves everything from climate change to awkward first dates."
    She smirked, swirling her wine. "People are more honest naked," she said, stretching her arms overhead in a way that made Brent's throat click. "No bullshit small talk, no hiding behind designer labels. Just..." Her foot brushed his under the table. "Bodies and truths."
    Brent's gaze snagged on the hollow of her collarbone, the way her pulse fluttered there when she laughed. *Focus on her face*, he reminded himself, but her face was just as dangerous—the crooked tilt of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners like she found the whole world amusing.
    "I'm still adjusting," he admitted, gripping his glass tighter. "Hard not to stare when you—" He gestured vaguely at her, then winced. "Shit. That sounded creepier out loud."
    She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and the movement made her breasts shift in a way that short-circuited Brent's higher brain functions. "Stare all you want," she murmured. "I picked you, remember? Means I *like* what I see."
    Heat flooded Brent's face. The lounge's ambient noise—clinking glasses, murmured conversations—faded to a buzz in his ears. He'd been assessed, chosen, *approved*, and the realization sent a dizzying rush through him.
    Her fingertip traced the rim of her glass. "So," she said, watching the wine swirl, "what's the real reason you came tonight? Beyond peer pressure."
    Brent exhaled sharply. The truth sat heavy on his tongue: *Because I was tired of being the guy women settle for after their wilder flings.* But what came out was: "Seemed easier than online dating."
    She laughed—a rich, unguarded sound that turned heads at nearby tables. "Easier?" Her knee bumped his under the table. "You're sweating through that chair."
    "Okay, *conceptually* easier," Brent amended, grinning despite himself. "No ghosting if she's already seen your dick."
    "Fair." She stole a sip of his wine, her lips leaving a faint smudge on the rim. "But you're missing the best part."
    "Yeah?"
    "No clothes means no pockets." She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. "Which means no phones. No distractions. Just..." Her thumb stroked his pulse point. "*This*."
    Brent's breath hitched. Her touch was warm, deliberate, mapping the veins along his inner wrist like she was memorizing them. The lounge's chatter faded further, narrowing to the point where their skin met.
    Then—too soon—she pulled back, leaning into the booth's cushions. "So," she said, tilting her head, "what do you do when you're not getting naked with strangers?"
    The whiplash made Brent blink. One moment she was unraveling him with a touch, the next she wanted his *résumé*? But her expression was genuine—curious, even—so he grasped for coherence. "Graphic design. Freelance. Mostly album covers for bands you've never heard of."
    Her eyes lit up. "Prove it."
    Brent fumbled for his phone in the pile of his clothes, then remembered—no pockets. He groaned. "Can't. All my work's on—"
    "Then describe one to me." She rested her chin on her palm, attentive as a student in a lecture hall. "Your favorite project."
    So Brent did. He told her about the psychedelic poster for a garage band's reunion tour, how he'd layered old family photos under inkblots until the lead singer cried. She listened intently, interrupting only to ask questions that proved she was *actually listening*—about his color choices, his typography nightmares, the time a client demanded Comic Sans "but classier."
    Halfway through his rant about vector art, Brent realized two things: first, he'd stopped thinking about their nudity entirely. Second, she was smiling at him like he'd hung the moon.
    "You're passionate," she observed, tracing a watermark left by her glass. "I like that."
    Brent rubbed his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry. Rambling."
    "Don't apologize." Her foot hooked around his ankle under the table. "Passion's sexy as hell."
    The server reappeared then, balancing two dessert plates. "Complimentary chocolate fondue," he announced, setting down a pot of melted chocolate surrounded by fruit. "Valentine's special."
    Brent grinned as she immediately speared a strawberry. "Someone's eager."
    She licked the juice off her thumb, unrepentant. "Sue me. I have a sweet tooth." Dipping the berry into the chocolate, she brought it to her lips—then paused, catching his gaze. "You're staring again."
    Brent blinked. "Just admiring your... technique."
    She rolled her eyes but offered him the strawberry. He leaned forward to take a bite—just as a glob of chocolate dripped onto her collarbone. 
    They froze. 
    The chocolate slid slowly downward, leaving a glossy trail between her breasts. Brent's gaze tracked its progress with horrified fascination.
    She cleared her throat. "When were you planning to tell me I've got chocolate on my tits?"
    Brent's face burned. "I was... assessing the situation."
    She burst out laughing, shoulders shaking, and the movement made the chocolate smear further. Brent snorted, then choked on a giggle, and suddenly they were both wheezing into their hands like teenagers.
    "Here—" He grabbed a napkin, then hesitated. "Uh. Do you want...?"
    She wiped tears from her eyes. "God, yes, please. Before it hardens into body armor."
    Brent dabbed gingerly at her collarbone, the napkin turning sticky. Her skin was warm under his fingertips. 
    "Higher," she murmured.
    He swallowed. The chocolate had pooled in the dip between her breasts. Carefully, he blotted it—then froze when her breath hitched. 
    Their eyes met. The air between them crackled.
    She plucked the napkin from his fingers. "You missed a spot." Slowly, deliberately, she dragged it down her sternum, her gaze locked on his. Brent's mouth went dry.
    The napkin dropped to the table. 
    "Better?" she asked, voice low.
    Brent exhaled shakily. "Worse. Definitely worse."
    Her grin turned predatory. Leaning forward, she swiped a finger through the fondue pot and painted a deliberate stripe down his chest. Brent's abs clenched under the warm chocolate. 
    "Now we're even," she said.
    Brent stared at the sticky trail glistening on his skin. Then, with a courage he didn't know he had, he dipped two fingers into the pot and dotted her shoulders like freckles. 
    Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh, it's *on*."
    What followed was less dessert and more culinary warfare—chocolate fingerprints on ribs, a smear down a thigh, a accidental swipe across a cheek that left them both breathless with laughter. By the time they called a truce, the fondue pot was nearly empty, and they were sticky and grinning like fools.
    She licked chocolate off her pinky. "So," she said, eyeing the mess they'd made, "hot tub to wash off?"
    Brent's pulse kicked. "Thought you'd never ask."
    They left a trail of chocolatey footprints to the pool area, where steam curled off the water in inviting tendrils. She tested the temperature with her toes, then sighed as she sank in up to her shoulders. Brent followed, the heat a shock against his skin after the cool air.
    She floated closer, her legs brushing his under the water. "Still nervous?" 
    Brent shook his head, surprised to realize it was true. The tension had melted away with the chocolate, leaving something lighter in its place—something that felt dangerously like comfort.
    She leaned back against the tub's edge, her hair fanning out in the water. "Good." Her foot hooked around his calf. "Because I have a confession."
    "Yeah?"
    "I picked you for your hands."
    Brent blinked. "My... hands?"
    "Mm." She caught his wrist, pulling it above the water to examine his fingers. "Long fingers. Piano hands." Her thumb traced his knuckles. "I had a theory."
    Brent's breath caught. "And?"
    She smiled, slow and wicked. "Let's just say..." Leaning in, she nipped his earlobe. "I was right."
    Brent's laughter bubbled up alongside the jets as she grinned at him, her toes brushing his thigh under the steamy water. "Seriously," she said, tilting her head toward the roiling surface, "best part of hot tubs. You could let one rip right now and I'd never know."
    He choked on his own spit, wiping water from his eyes—partly from the jets, partly from the sheer audacity of her. "You're *impossible*," he managed, but he was grinning too.
    She stretched, arms overhead, utterly unselfconscious as water sluiced down her shoulders. "Grew up in a nudist colony," she said, like she was commenting on the weather. "Body shame wasn't in our vocabulary. Burps, farts, period blood—all just part of the human experience."
    Brent watched a droplet slide down the slope of her nose. "Intellectually, I agree," he admitted. "But try telling that to my middle school gym teacher who threatened to fail me if I didn't shower after class."
    Her nose wrinkled. "See, *that's* the damage." She drifted closer, her knee bumping his under the water. "But look at you now." Her fingers skimmed the surface, tracing idle circles near his hip. "Naked in a hot tub with a stranger, not even flinching when she talks about farting."
    "Who says I'm not flinching?" Brent countered, but his voice had gone low, his attention snagged on where her pinky finger now brushed his thigh.
    Her grin turned wicked. "Your pupils." She closed the distance between them, the heat of the water nothing compared to the heat of her mouth when she pressed it to his.
    The kiss was slow at first—testing, teasing—until her teeth caught his lower lip and Brent's hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. Water sloshed over the edge as she climbed into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, her skin slick and hot everywhere they touched.
    "You're *good* at this," Brent murmured against her jaw, his thumbs tracing the dip of her waist.
    She hummed, nipping at his earlobe. "Told you I liked beginners." Her hips rolled against his, and Brent's grip tightened, his breath coming sharp through his nose.
    Then—suddenly—she pulled back, her expression shifting to something mischievous. "Wait." She reached behind her, snagging a floating tray with two shot glasses balanced on it. "Forgot these."
    Brent blinked. "You—what—*when*—?"
    "While you were admiring my collarbone." She passed him a glass, the liquid inside amber and smokey. "Figured we could use a toast."
    Brent took the shot, the whiskey burning down his throat as she clinked their glasses together. "To societal conditioning," she said, tossing hers back with a grin. "And overcoming it one naked hot tub at a time."
    Brent was still coughing when she kissed him again, the taste of whiskey and laughter on her tongue.
    Her shoulders tensed under his palms as he worked his thumbs into the knots along her spine. "Jesus," she groaned, her head lolling forward. "Who taught you *that*?"
    Brent grinned, pressing deeper into the taut muscle. "Twelve years of piano scales." His fingers traced the dip where her neck met her shoulders, eliciting a shudder. "Turns out finger dexterity translates."
    She exhaled sharply as his thumbs circled the base of her skull. "God, I *knew* it." Her voice was slurry with pleasure. "Musicians always know where to—*fuck*, right there—always know where to touch."
    Brent chuckled, kneading the tension from her trapezius. "So this was your master plan? Lure me in with chocolate fondue, then use me for my hands?"
    She twisted just enough to smirk at him over her shoulder. "And if I did?" Her hips shifted against his thighs, the hot tub’s jets pulsing between them. "You complaining?"
    Brent’s fingers slowed, skimming down her ribs. "Not even a little."
    She arched into his touch, her skin slick and warm under his palms. "Good. Then don’t stop." Her head tipped back against his shoulder, her breath hitching as he found the spot just above her hip that made her squirm. "Christ, you’re *good* at this."
    The praise curled low in Brent’s stomach. He’d never seen someone unravel like this—not just physically, but *visibly*, like every guarded part of her was softening under his hands. Her breaths deepened, her muscles going pliant, her fingers trailing absently along his knee under the water. It was intoxicating.
    "You’re *melting*," he murmured against her ear.
    She hummed, boneless against him. "Told you I liked beginners." Her hand found his wrist, guiding his palm lower. "Less ego. More... *listening*."
    Brent’s pulse spiked as her fingers laced with his, pressing his hand flat against her stomach. The water rippled around them, the jets humming against his back, but all he could focus on was the way her body yielded to his touch—the way her breath hitched when his thumb brushed the underside of her breast, the way her hips rolled almost imperceptibly against his thigh.
    "You’re *thinking* again," she murmured, tilting her head to nip at his jaw.
    Brent huffed a laugh. "Hard not to."
    She turned in his arms, her knees bracketing his hips, her palms braced against his chest. Water sloshed over the edge as she leaned in, her mouth a hot, whiskey-sweet promise against his. "Then let me distract you."
    Her hips rolled, and Brent’s grip tightened on her waist, his breath coming sharp. She grinned against his lips, slow and wicked. "See?" Her teeth grazed his earlobe. "No more thinking."
    Brent groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her thighs. "You’re *insufferable*."
    She laughed, low and rich, and the sound vibrated through him like a plucked string. "But you like it."
    He did. God help him, he did.
    Brent traced the curve of her shoulder blade with his thumb, watching the water ripple around them. "You're just... so at ease with this," he murmured. "Like some kind of free spirit. Reminds me of this girl I knew in high school—she was kind of weird, always drawing these surreal comics in the margins of her notebooks. But there was something about her..." His fingers stilled. "I always thought she was attractive, but I was too shy. Too uptight. Never made a move."
    She went very still against him. Then, slowly, she turned in the water to face him, her expression unreadable.
    "You know," she said, her voice oddly measured, "I was wondering if you'd remember."
    Brent blinked. "Remember what?"
    She tilted her head, water dripping from the loose strands of her hair. "You don't recognize me, do you?" A pause. "In fact, you never even asked my name." Her grin turned sharp, teasing. "We've been naked for hours, Brent. Shared champagne, chocolate fondue, a fucking hot tub—and you neglected that one important question."
    Heat crawled up Brent's neck. He *hadn't* asked. Hadn't even realized. "Shit. What—what's your name?"
    "Bethany," she said, watching his face closely. "Bethany Cole. Though back in Mr. Davidson's algebra class, you used to call me 'Cole' like it was some kind of insult."
    The water suddenly felt scalding. Brent's mouth went dry. "No. *No.* You're not—" His gaze snapped to her face, really looking this time: the faint freckles across her nose, the way her left eyebrow arched slightly higher than the right. The scar on her collarbone from when she'd fallen off her skateboard sophomore year. "Holy *shit.*"
    Bethany—*Cole*, the girl who'd worn fishnet gloves to prom and quoted Kafka during lunch—laughed, low and delighted. "Took you long enough."
    Brent's hands slid from her waist like he'd been burned. "But you—you're *different.*" He gestured helplessly at her. "You were all... goth eyeliner and combat boots. Now you're—" His brain short-circuited at the sight of her naked in the bubbling water, all confidence and sharp smiles.
    "Now I'm what?" She arched a brow. "Still weird, just with better skincare?"
    "No, you're—" Brent raked a hand through his hair, sending water droplets flying. "You're *you*, but... more. Like someone turned up the contrast." His throat worked. "And you *knew* it was me this whole time?"
    Bethany's grin turned wolfish. "The second you walked in. That nervous toe-tap thing you do? Still the same." She reached out, tracing the line of his jaw. "Though you've filled out *nicely.*"
    Brent's brain reeled. All those years ago, he'd sat behind her in algebra, secretly sketching her profile in his notebook while she doodled grotesque monsters eating the quadratic formula. He'd memorized the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck, the ink stains on her fingers, the way she'd hum under her breath during tests. And now here she was, naked and laughing at him in a hot tub, her thighs bracketing his hips like it was the most natural thing in the world.
    "You *picked* me," he said slowly, the realization dawning. "Out of all those guys. Because you knew—"
    "Because I wanted to see if uptight Brent Meyers had finally loosened up," she finished, her thumb brushing his bottom lip. "Turns out you just needed the right motivation." Her grin turned wicked. "And fewer clothes."
    Brent caught her wrist, his pulse hammering. "All this time, you *let* me ramble about piano hands—"
    "You *do* have nice hands." She laced their fingers together, pressing his palm against the hot tub's tile beside her head. "But mostly I wanted to see how long it'd take you to recognize me. A+ for effort, by the way."
    Brent groaned, dropping his forehead against her shoulder. "I'm an idiot."
    Bethany carded her fingers through his hair, her laughter vibrating against him. "Yeah, but you're *my* idiot." Her voice softened. "Always were, really."
    Brent lifted his head. The steam curled around them, the jets humming against his back, but all he could focus on was the way she looked at him—like she had back in algebra class, like he was a puzzle she wanted to solve. Only now, there were no desks between them. No notebooks to hide behind.
    "Bethany Cole," he murmured, staring into her eyes like he was seeing them for the first time. "I just realized—I never stopped thinking about you."  
    She blinked once—then burst out laughing so hard water sloshed over the edge of the tub. "Oh my *god*, Brent Meyers," she wheezed, flinging a splash at his face. "That was the *corniest* line—"  
    Brent retaliated with a wave that drenched her hair, sending dark strands sticking to her collarbones. "It's *true*," he insisted, though his ears burned. "You were the only interesting thing in that fucking algebra class."  
    Bethany wiped water from her eyes, still grinning. "Yeah? Well, confession time." She hooked a foot around his ankle under the water. "While I was drawing those monsters eating the quadratic formula..." Her toes traced his calf. "I may have also sketched a few... *alternate* versions of you."  
    Brent froze. "Alternate versions?"  
    "Mm." Her grin turned wicked. "Let's just say I had a *vivid* imagination about what you looked like under that stupid polo shirt."  
    The admission hit him like a live wire. Brent's mouth went dry. "*What*?"  
    She shrugged, sending ripples across the water. "What? You had good shoulders even then. I extrapolated." Her fingers walked up his chest, leaving trails of heat in their wake. "Turns out I was *right* about the collarbones."  
    Brent's pulse hammered against his ribs. All those years ago, while he'd been sneaking glances at her fishnet gloves, she'd been—*Jesus*—*drawing him naked*? The thought sent heat licking down his spine. "So when you saw me tonight—"  
    "I *knew*," she finished, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "The second you walked in with that nervous toe-tap? Like fucking déjà vu." Her palm slid up his neck, cradling his jaw. "Except now I don't have to imagine."  
    Brent's breath caught. The steam curled around them, the jets humming against his back, but all he could focus on was the way she looked at him—like she was unwrapping a gift she'd waited years to open.  
    "Bethany," he started, but she cut him off with a press of her thumb to his lips.  
    "Shut up," she murmured. "You're ruining my teenage fantasy." Then she kissed him, slow and deep, her fingers tightening in his hair.  
    Brent's hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. The water sloshed wildly as she climbed into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips. When she finally pulled back, breathless, her pupils were blown wide.  
    "So," she panted, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones. "How's *that* for a high school reunion?"  
    Brent huffed a laugh, his grip tightening on her hips. "Better than the ten-year one I didn't go to."  
    Bethany threw her head back laughing—and Brent seized his chance. He ducked forward, pressing his mouth to the flutter of her pulse. She gasped, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin.  
    "*Cheater*," she breathed, but her hips rolled against his, stealing the accusation from her voice.  
    Brent grinned against her throat. "Learned from the best."  
    She tugged his hair, forcing his gaze up to hers. In the dim light, her eyes were dark as the ink she'd once smudged across her notebooks. "Guess what, Meyers," she murmured, her voice rough with promise.  
    "Yeah?"  
    Her teeth scraped his earlobe. "You're *way* hotter than my doodles."  
    Brent's laughter dissolved into a groan as her hips moved again, the water swirling around them like the steam thickening the air. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that they were going to get kicked out of this hot tub.  
    And *god*, he couldn't wait.
    "Come on let's get out of here, we have decades to make up for," Bethany said and he could only smile and nod in agreement, this really was the best Valentine's Day ever, although he felt that there would be many more naked ones to come.

This I thought was sort of a nice story for Valentine's Day really, it's about two people who are mutually naked where once again one of the characters is very comfortable being naked and the other one is sort of shy and more awkward about it. But I thought that it was an interesting concept about sort of a blind date naked but where the woman gets to select the guy she wants to be naked with and the guy basically just has to wait for the woman to pick him so it's kind of nice to know that the woman enjoyed picking him, and they have an awkward time but then they seem to really hit it off because they didn't even realize or at least he didn't realize that this was the woman that he knew who was kind of weird and he was too shy to go out with but she is uninhibited, recognized him and picked him to be her naked date and I just thought it sort of ends nicely, this is sort of one of the more shy awkward kind of nudity rather than the extremely embarrassing or humiliating kind, so I thought it was sort of a sweet kind of story and I kind of wonder if they actually made something like that how popular it would be, naked dating where the women get to pick the date, it sounds like something that would be interesting to try at any rate!