Chapter 24 Nolan #2
My knees bend before my brain catches up. She straddles me a second later, arms looping around my neck, and I nearly die on the spot.
Because this is real. She’s here. With me. Her weight in my lap. Her scent everywhere. The soft shift of her shirt brushing against mine. I think my heart might break out of my chest.
“Lindsay,” I breathe, voice cracking slightly.
She tilts her head. “Nolan?”
I try to say something. Anything. But my mouth has stopped working properly because her hands are moving now—skimming down my chest, undoing buttons, and I swear every nerve in my body fires like I’ve been struck by a live wire.
I swallow hard.
“This is… I mean, I want to—I really, really want to—but…”
She stills instantly, giving me that sharp-eyed look like she’s reading every thought I’m having.
“It’s okay,” she says, softer now. “You’re allowed to be nervous.”
I nod, then wince. “I’ve just… I haven’t—ever.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “At all? I thought you meant out in the open.”
I feel the heat rise so fast it’s probably visible. “Yeah. At all. I mean—Not like this. Not with someone who matters this much. Just…uh…on my own.”
I want to die admitting that out loud. Who is a literal virgin at twenty-one? No one that I know. Her expression softens, all teasing gone. Her hands cradle my face, thumbs brushing over my cheeks.
“You matter to me too,” she says. “And I’m not going to rush you.”
“I’m not opposed to rushing,” I say quickly. “I just—might be a little… fumbly.”
Her grin returns, and it does things to me.
“You can fumble all you want,” she says, voice dropping as she kisses my jawline and then just below my ear. “I’ve got you.”
I think I actually melt.
She shifts again, slow and confident, and my hands come up instinctively to steady her. Her thighs frame my hips. Her fingers trace the edges of my jaw like I’m something precious—like I’m hers.
And gods, I want to be.
My shirt slips off somewhere between kisses, and when her hands slide over my skin, I can’t help the gasp that escapes me. It’s not even that it’s too much—it’s just everything. Every inch of her touch is burning itself into memory.
She kisses me deeper. Longer. My hands tighten at her waist. I’m drowning in sensation—in her—and I don’t want to come up for air.
“Is this okay?” she whispers between kisses, her lips ghosting across my throat, her fingers teasing the edge of my waistband.
I nod too fast, my voice cracking again. “Yes. Yes. Just—tell me what to do. Please.”
She leans back just enough to meet my gaze.
“You don’t have to do anything, Nolan,” she says, eyes fierce and tender all at once. “Just feel. Let me take care of you today.”
She eases me back on the bench, our bodies still tangled. The cool stone at my back is nothing compared to the warmth of her, her palms pressed to my chest, her lips tracing a path from the corner of my mouth to my jaw, down the line of my throat.
I gasp—because I didn’t know it could feel like lightning and gravity all at once.
“Still okay?” she murmurs.
“Gods, yes.”
She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. It’s sweet. As though she’s proud of me. As if she likes that she’s doing this with me, not just to me.
I’ve read a thousand descriptions of first times—awkward, perfect, messy, sweet—but none of them prepared me for her. For how careful she is. For how seen I feel.
I slide my hands up her back, rediscovering the shape of her in slow, reverent passes. My fingertips tremble as they dip under fabric, but she doesn’t rush me. She just lets me explore—lets me want her.
And stars, I do.
I want all of her. The girl who stood in front of the Council with fire in her eyes. The one who kissed me as though I was her anchor. The one who is now slowly lifting her shirt, her gaze never leaving mine.
She pulls it off, and I stop breathing.
She’s beautiful. I knew that. But this is different. This is bare. This is Lindsay choosing to trust me, to be vulnerable with me, and my heart aches from the weight of it.
“You can touch me,” she says, voice soft.
I do.
Tentatively at first, my hands brushing over skin I’ve only dreamed about. And when she sighs—when she leans into the touch—I nearly lose the fragile control I’m clinging to.
She guides us forward, moving with slow confidence, helping me with each new step. I fumble a little. My hands shake. I get too caught up in kissing her to remember what I’m supposed to do next. But she doesn’t laugh. She just smiles against my mouth and adjusts.
Her fingers go to my waistband, pausing a second as she gazes down at me. The light kisses her skin, and it is an image I will never be able to erase from my memory. Her blue hair flows down her back, a few strands coming over her shoulder and brushing the tips of her nipples.
Which are rosey and hard-looking. I reach for her breasts, rolling the hard nubs gently between my fingers and am rewarded when her head falls back, a low moan flowing from between her lips. My cock pulses in my pants at the sound.
I need her to keep making those breathy moans. Or maybe I need her to stop, because I’m pretty sure I could come with just the sound alone.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur. When she makes another breathy sound, I lean forward and capture her nipple between my lips and suck softly, twirling my tongue around the surface of her skin.
Then I release it and do the same to the other, until her fingers are threaded in my hair, holding me to her.
“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” she asks in a broken laugh. And she rubs against my length and lets out another moan.
Holy stars. A gasp of pleasure falls over her skin as I try to catch my breath. “I’m not going to last five seconds if you keep doing that.”
She bites her lip and meets my eyes, her own bright and happy. “I’m patient. The second time is usually longer anyway.”
Second time? My heart does somersaults inside my chest. She’s talking about a second time like I’m not going to completely ruin this first time with my inexperience.
While I’m busy having an internal crisis, she’s already unbuttoning my pants with steady, sure fingers. The zipper rasps down—loud in the quiet tower—and then her hand slips inside my briefs. Cool fingertips brush my overheated skin, then wrap around me, firm and perfect.
I think I might have died and gone to heaven.
Her grip is nothing like my own hurried, fumbling strokes in the dark of my dorm room once everyone is asleep.
She’s slow at first, exploratory—thumb tracing the thick vein along the underside, circling the slick bead of pre-cum at the tip until I hiss through my teeth.
My hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the contact.
Then she moves.
She slides down my body in one fluid motion, knees bracketing my thighs, blue hair spilling forward like a curtain. Her breath ghosts over the head of my cock—hot, teasing—and I swear every hair on my body stands on end.
“Linds—” My voice cracks, embarrassingly high.
She looks up at me through her lashes, eyes dark and wicked and impossibly tender all at once. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs.
Then her lips part, and she takes me in.
The first touch of her mouth is electric—soft, plush lips sealing around the crown, followed by the wet slide of her tongue flattening against the underside.
Heat. Velvet. Suction. It’s too much all at once.
My brain whites out. I’ve read clinical descriptions of fellatio in stolen anatomy texts, seen grainy diagrams in forbidden corners of the library, but nothing—nothing—prepared me for this reality.
She sinks lower, taking more of me inch by slick inch.
The roof of her mouth is smooth and warm; her tongue curls and presses, dragging along the sensitive ridge until my thighs tremble.
When she hollows her cheeks and sucks—hard—the pull is obscene, as if she’s drawing my soul out through my cock.
A low, wet sound fills the air: the soft gluck of her throat working, the slick slide of saliva coating me as she bobs.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. They hover uselessly for a second before instinct takes over—one fists the edge of the bench so hard my knuckles ache, the other threads into her hair—not pushing, just holding on like she’s the only thing tethering me to the planet.
Her tongue swirls around the head on the upstroke, flicking the slit, tasting me, and I choke on a groan that sounds more animal than human.
Every nerve in my body funnels down to where her mouth is working me.
Saliva drips down my shaft, warm and slippery, pooling at the base where her fingers stroke what her lips can’t reach.
I can feel the flutter of her throat when she takes me deeper—gagging just a little, the tiny spasm rippling around me—and it’s the most filthy, perfect thing I’ve ever felt. My balls draw up tight, aching. Pressure coils low and fast, embarrassingly fast.
“Lindsay, I’m gonna—” The words tumble out in a broken rush. “Fuck—I can’t—I’m—”
She doesn’t pull back.
Instead, she hums around me—a low, vibrating sound that shoots straight through my cock—and sucks harder, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing flat and relentless. Her hand twists at the base in time with her mouth, and that’s it.
I come with a strangled shout that echoes off the stone walls.
Pulse after blinding pulse floods her mouth.
She swallows around me milking every shuddering spurt until my vision sparks white at the edges.
My hips buck once, twice, helpless, and she takes it all, lips sealed tight, throat working until I’m empty and oversensitive and shaking like I’ve been struck by lightning.
When she finally eases off with a slow, wet pop, a thin string of saliva and cum connects her swollen lips to the glistening head of my cock for one obscene second before it breaks. She licks her lips—slow, deliberate—and looks up at me with eyes that are bright and proud and a little wrecked.