Let Me Be Your First (Music and Letters #1)

by Lynsey M. Stewart

  I pulled over to reply.

  Me: Are you?

  Luke: Yes, let me prove it to you Sunday night!

  Me: Another date?

  Luke: At mine, I will cook

  Me: No funny business!

  Luke: Your arse looked fucking great today

  Me: It’s a date!

  Chapter Ten

  We spent the next night texting each other. It felt good to have his attention again. I was on countdown until Sunday night. I had wasted the day planning my outfit, changing my mind several times, and adding to the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. Abi offered some well-intentioned advice about it being my prerogative as a woman to change my mind, but I felt I was fumbling my way around the dating game, plotting and planning my next strategic move to win.

  I had slipped into some jogging bottoms with a hole in the knee and a vest top with a questionable stain on the boobage area. It was standard uniform for the anxious—clothes you wouldn’t be seen dead in apart from nipping to the post-box in the dark or answering the door to the pizza delivery guy, praying he wouldn’t judge you for ordering a large instead of a small knowing you were eating alone.

  I settled down to watch a cheesy romcom in bed and spent most of the night throwing popcorn at the screen, outraged at how easily the incompatible couple had fallen in love and lived happily ever. It crawled under my skin and made me itchy and restless. I let out a deep sigh as I held up my hair with my hands, smoothing it back into a ponytail.

  I heard my phone ring. I assumed it would be Abi looking for an update, but when I reached for my phone and saw his name, I took a quick breath. Would the butterflies ever go away? One phone call and I became an incoherent, totally useless, pathetically pathetic mess. I tried to control my shaking hands by giving them a good talking to as I firmly gripped the phone to my ear. He apologised. Again. It was becoming an annoyingly cute habit of his. He was such a contradiction in terms. He brushed away the silence of the last few days with a steady breath, explaining that his feelings were in a mess and he needed time to sort through them all. He repeated the words that had lodged themselves into my blood stream: ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ I crossed my fingers behind my back as I promised him he wouldn’t, despite already spending most of the week feeling pretty fucking hurt.

  He confessed that he was looking forward to seeing me, kissing me, and touching me. I was ready to drive over there that instant for him to repeat those words to my face with no phone to hide behind. Just honest and open, no masks allowed.

  ‘You know, I’m a very sexual man, Elle. I might frighten you away.’ His voice was low and sexy, like he had just woken up from a two-hour nap but still only had the energy to turn over and chase another dream. I imagined him lying on his bed in just his boxers.

  ‘Maybe I’m not frightened,’ I said, trying desperately not to laugh at my obvious lack of experience in the talking dirty department.

  ‘Jesus,’ he sighed. I smiled as I pressed the tops of my thighs together to alleviate the pressure building between them. ‘How many people have you been with?’

  The dreaded question, the one I had avoided answering all of my adult life from friends and nosy family members trying to embarrass or belittle as they already knew the answer. Apparently, virgins over the age of twenty wear flashing neon signs on their foreheads. How should I handle this? What could I say? Think of something witty and clever, Elle. Deflect, deflect, deflect! I sat on the edge of the bed and raised my knees to my chest in a purely comforting move.

  ‘How many have you been with?’ I asked, silently congratulating myself for my diversion tactics.

  ‘We’re playing that game, are we?’

  Yes, yes we are.

  ‘How many?’ I brazenly repeated, completely unaware of where this sudden confidence had come from, but chalked it down to the growing wetness between my legs. There were five seconds of orchestrated silence until I heard a low voice.

  ‘Nine.’

  I thought his magic number would be much higher. Nine seemed low for a man of Luke’s awesomeness, but then again, what did I know?

  ‘Now you.’ He sounded like he was smirking. I could imagine the cocky grin slipping into the corners of his mouth. He knew I was uncomfortable, but he was still gently pushing me for an answer. My strategy wasn’t working. I began to wonder how to play it. Should I lie and say I was a sexual deviant who had enjoyed the company of limitless men, making my number considerably higher than his surprising nine? Or should I be honest and tell him I was still a virgin? Taking a deep breath, I went with the route of being honest.

  ‘Nine less than you.’

  ‘Sorry?’ he asked in obvious shock.

  I contemplated my next strategic move whilst rubbing my hand manically across my forehead, closing my eyes to face the onslaught. ‘Nine less than you, ‘ I repeated.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that,’ he replied, setting the solo tick of muscle in my clenched jaw.

  Was that statement good or bad? The older I got, the more worried I became about the reaction from my first sexual partner and whether my admission would trigger a serious virgin fetish. I couldn’t gauge the reaction, particularly as there was silence on the other end of the phone. He finally spoke, and when he did, it was good. It was really good.

  ‘I’m looking forward to being your first.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Being a woman led to some pretty hefty commitments in the personal grooming department.

  Shaved legs! Tick.

  Shaved underarms! Tick.

  Shaved intimate lady parts…erm…

  As a twenty-three-year-old virgin, this area was seriously lacking firm attention. I needed serious advice, and I knew just who to call.

  ‘What’s the trend for pubic hair?’ I said, my tongue firmly in my cheek as I looked at myself in the mirror, screwing my face and biting the corner of my lip to stop myself from laughing.

  I heard a muffled sigh. ‘Are you getting ready for fucknugget? Why go to all that trouble? He’s in for virgin pussy tonight. He won’t care if it’s long enough to plait. He might even be into that,’ Abi said without a hint of laughter to back it up. She often said the first thing that came into her head, making enemies because of that beautifully honest trait, but I loved her for it.

  ‘Seriously, what should I do? Trim, leave a strip, or bare?’ I could hear typing in the background. I wondered if she was working or chatting with a man she had met online.

  ‘He doesn’t deserve bare. Save that for the wedding night,’ she chuckled,

  ‘Not helping,’ I said, secretly holding in my fizz at the mere mention of weddings.

  She stopped typing and granted me her full attention. ‘Do you think he’s going to manscape for you?’ OK, go for a trim. If this does go anywhere, you can talk about his pube preferences on your fourth date.’

  After trimming my bikini line, exfoliating my sandpaper legs, and applying lotion to every square inch of my body, I was ready. I chose to wear a simple outfit of jeans and a t-shirt as I didn’t want to appear overly sexy. Or desperate. I tried to stay away from dressing like a twenty-three-year-old virgin stereotype: ankle length skirts, prim blouses, pearls, chastity belt. It was a hard balance, but I felt I carried it off.

  I made sure my underwear matched and made a mental note to buy more sexy underwear. Abi had recently encouraged me to buy a thong and matching lace bra, but my underwear drawer mainly consisted of black cotton knickers that did not scream, ‘I want to lose my virginity, take me now!’

  I arrived at Luke’s place five minutes before our agreed time of 7 p.m. This gave me plenty of time to lose my mind in the car. As I sat outside, I knew that I was starting to panic. Reality had firmly set in. Would he pounce on me the moment I walked through the door? Would he take his time and ease me in with a bit of boob grabbing? Oh, my God! I needed a brown paper bag to breathe into, or perhaps an inhaler.

  I nervously walked up the stone path towards his front door, try
ing to co-ordinate my limbs. They felt like I had slept on them in an awkward position, resulting in the fuzzy, heavy feeling of blood collecting at my feet. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door in a nonchalant pattern of raps.

  I smiled as he pulled the door back, but I was fighting the urge to run back down the path. Luke was waiting and smiling broadly. Surely he was too perfect to be opening the door to me? He was wearing faded jeans and a black t-shirt, he was barefoot and sexy, his hair slightly damp from what I assumed was a quick shower before I arrived. His skin had that scent that could reduce a woman to her knees, all pheromones and desire. If it was bottled and sold in department stores, it would sell out before you could say female hard-on.

  ‘I’m just trying not to burn a pizza and I’ve put together a bit of salad. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.’ He looked hot, and not just hot from the kitchen hot, but hot because he was super fucking sexy hot. I wanted him to undress me there in the hallway. All of the panic I’d felt in the car had dissipated, not leaving an ounce of anxiety-fuelled vapour. He smiled as he took my jacket from my shoulders. ‘Take a seat.’ He gestured towards the living room. ‘Oh, and Elle,’ he said with smile, ‘I’m not going to pounce on you the second you walk through the door.’ He cocked his head as his hand swept down my back to my arse, making me question if I would make it through the night without melting into a wet puddle of mush on the floor. The panic that had vanished earlier had made a frighteningly speedy return, making my blood flow thick and slow as I tried to take in a steadying breath.

  ‘You seem nervous,’ he shouted from the kitchen.

  He was right.

  ‘I’m OK. Just feeling a bit weird being here in your house.’

  ‘Don’t feel weird. I’ll look after you,’ he said as he breezed back through and handed me a glass of white wine. As I was driving, I studied the glass through one eye knowing that if I drank it, I would be on the floor before the end of the night, particularly as I hadn’t been able to eat all day. The thought of food made me want to be physically sick. I took it from him but grimaced.

  ‘If I didn’t know you better, I would guess that you were trying to get me drunk.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t need to take measures to get you into bed. Whatever we do tonight will only be done if we are both in full mutually consenting agreement.’ He drew out the last three words for added effect. He didn’t need to. I almost slipped off my underwear and pushed it into his pocket. The dance between my hormones and my anxiety was giving me major whiplash. I didn’t recognise myself.

  Luke sat down on the sofa next me and smiled hesitantly. He stared at me, assessing the mood and cautiously drumming his fingers, wordlessly asking if I was OK. I replied by smiling hesitantly behind my wine glass. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, his voice low and tight. I was acutely aware that his leg was now lightly touching mine, moving closer. I was getting hot and clammy, and all the other things you feel when it gets a bit too much.

  ‘Honestly? Not really,’ I replied, shifting in my seat. His hand, so strong but so equally light in touch, started to trace down my thigh causing me to shiver and smile, the baby hairs on my arms prickling to attention when he brought his hand up slowly to cup the back of my neck. I wanted to stop and ask him if this was real. Did he really want to do this with me? I wanted to analyse and stress, and ask, ‘Why me?’

  I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know Luke could have had his pick of women. Women who knew how to talk dirty without sniggering. Women who could give blow jobs. Women who had the power to remove all basic bodily functions. Women who knew how to dress to highlight their best features and didn’t feel slutty when the neckline was just a little bit too low.

  What would his reaction be when he realised that my clothes were cleverly chosen to trick the eye into believing I had the perfect body? Would he feel short-changed when he unbuttoned my jeans for the first time and watched the lumps and bumps all spill out over the sides?

  If he noticed my frozen panic, he didn’t let on, probably choosing to ignore it and therefore sidestepping the notoriously tricky topic of women and body image.

  I made a promise to myself to always remember the moments when my anxiety was turned down to a flicker and confidence overtook the doubts. Those moments when his appreciative smile met mine, when he took in a deep breath to steady himself, and when his eyes lingered over the shapes and curves of my body just that little bit too long for it to be a mistake. Those moments would stop future shakes of anxiety in their tracks because I knew, absolutely, without a single smidge of doubt, that whatever we became, nobody would ever take those moments away from me.

  He gently pushed my hair out of my eyes away from my face, effectively removing my comfort blanket. He delicately brushed his mouth to mine in a sweet, gentle kiss. The kiss said, ‘Are you OK with this?’ I wanted an urgent rush of words to spill out and tell him, ‘Yes, I am.’ But his kiss had stolen those words and replaced them with silent body language. There was no need for words. That’s when I knew I was ready to take things to the next stage of our relationship.

  There seemed little time for nerves or awkward questions. I just wanted to feel my way through the moment. The uptight, controlling section of my brain was being lulled into a false sense of security when his lips continued searching their way over my mouth. His tongue swept gently inside, coaxing my lips to open as we savoured the slow, unhurried dance. He pulled back and looked into my eyes, watching me intensely as his thumb stroked my cheek. He kissed me again, but this time it was desperate and consuming, making me feel high with his need and desire for me.

  I didn’t want to acknowledge the worries. They didn’t deserve any more time. Doing that would only encourage them to grow until they were chanting, ‘Don’t show him your wobbly bits.’ I silenced them by quickly climbing onto his lap, straddling his hips and pushing the doubts away through calm breaths. He smiled and pulled me closer to him. His hands fell onto the curve of my behind, sitting me in place ready to be his. I twisted my spine, unable to stay still as he slowly moved his splayed fingers up to my hips, silently asking my permission before going any further. I replied to him by giving him my body, arching my back to press my breasts towards the strength of his chest. To convey a clear message without error or mistakes, I bravely placed my hand on top of his and moved it under my t-shirt, welcoming the deep groan as he skimmed his fingers over my bra. Oh, fuckity fuck! Why did I have such a strong urge to laugh? The kind of laugh that occurred during last week’s team meeting when Colin was oblivious to the fact he had a cornflake stuck to his forehead.

  ‘If you’re ticklish, I will only use it against you.’ He pulled the fabric over my head in one fluid motion, then sat back to enjoy the view of my body. All fears of stomach rolls and wobbly bits disappeared. His touch started to cure my doubts, my concerns, and my lack of confidence. In this moment, I was free. I knew that he liked what he saw from the lustful shadow across his face. His long fingers brushed over my belly button, curling further towards the clasp of my bra. He pulled down both straps, lacing them through his fingers until it fell away from my body so that I was fully exposed to him, vulnerable but oh so ready. I groaned as he delicately traced the tips of his fingers over my nipples. The sensation was both too much and not enough. ‘Has anyone ever kissed you here, Elle?’ he asked as he leant in closer to kiss the sensitive skin under my ear.

  ‘No,’ I whispered. I had no idea that the small area of skin so usually neglected could cause the deep shiver that penetrated down my spine. He continued placing soft kisses down the curve of my neck. I smiled as the realisation hit me that he had not yet touched me in what I assumed would be the places that would cause the most delicious sensations. I smiled wider at the anticipation of what was yet to come.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked as he rested his chin on the top of my head. We stopped and the world ground to a halt as I took the time to revel in the opportunity to just listen to him breathe. Each breath was heavy and laboured, his heart
beat drumming quickly under my fingertips. That sound alone invited me to pull up his t-shirt and explore his upper chest. ‘Take it off,’ he whispered into my ear. I pulled the shirt over his head, then heard it thud as I dropped it onto the floor below us. Luke’s body was muscular with a small smattering of hair across his chest trailing down towards his bellybutton. I traced the pattern with my fingers and smiled when he released a small moan. ‘Has anyone kissed you here?’

  Oh God, I loved this sexy game. I writhed my body shamelessly to get more contact as he lowered his head to the top of my breast and delicately kissed the fleshy mound. ‘No,’ I shivered, feeling his mouth curve into a smile on my skin.

  ‘Has anyone kissed you here?’ he repeated, his fingers tracing my nipples, brushing his thumbs across the hard tips.

  ‘No,’ I exhaled in a whisper, practically hyperventilating as I waited to feel the sensation of his mouth on my flesh. I didn’t have to wait long, as he began whispering kisses across my stomach in a direct line of navigation up towards my nipple, taking it in his mouth, making me shout out in ecstasy, his tongue rolling and sucking the sensitive flesh. I didn’t think I could take any more. I went to push his hand away, only to instantly pull it back onto my breast, tempting him to squeeze and knead the flesh with his hand.

  So many sensations. All so new and intense.

  ‘Your nipples are fucking amazing,’ he moaned as he dug his fingers into my hips. I smiled and shyly covered my eyes with my hands. My nipples had always been a hazard. They were so big they should have had a life of their own, complete with throbbing pulse. I could have had someone’s eye out if it wasn’t for the clever invention of padded bra cups—most women wore them to boost their bust, but I wore them for the sole purpose of hiding the protruding bumps through my clothing—but there I was, Elle Davis and her giant nips, being adored and desired, so much so that I could feel his unmistakable hardness underneath me.

  Placing both hands on my hips, he gently pulled me up. I found myself standing in front of him, his legs either side of my thighs. He started undoing the button of my jeans and slowly working his hand down, moaning when he found the wet spot on my underwear. He dropped his forehead to the crook of my hip. ‘You’re so wet. Feel your soaking pussy for me, gorgeous.’