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

by Lynsey M. Stewart

  He pulled on my top, unsure if he was going to drag it out of the waistband of my jeans. He played with it, tackling the thought process of what would be considered too much too soon but went with just enough at the right time. He twisted one side free and let his hand wander the bare skin of my waist, circling his fingers and teasing my resolve.

  A flash of lightening lit up the dark street ahead of us. We both instinctively turned to view the blanket of light in the sky. A clap of thunder made my shoulders jump. He stepped back, taking his coat with him, kissing my lips softly as he did. . The rain didn’t relent. This made me happy because it meant we could stay there in the darkness and pretend all the outside noise would eventually go away.

  He sent me a text when I got home. My bedtime ritual of checking my phone, Facebook and emails led me back to him.

  Ben: I’m not sure what’s running through your mind. Whatever it is, I hope it doesn’t stop you getting to sleep tonight.

  Ben: Imagine I’m there, no expectations, no talking, and no questions. Just two people holding on to each other.

  Ben: I would tease your hair around my fingers just to help you chase sleep.

  Ben: Feel me there…

  Me: I’m so confused. I’m tired and messed up, but I’m also happy and feel fortunate to have met you.

  Me: I need you to know that this confused, tired, and messed up girl wants to trust you, totally and without fear.

  Me: I’m working on it…

  Me: Stay with me

  As I turned over to settle into sleep, my phone lit up again. I reached over and took in the words of his text message.

  Ben: I’ll stay

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Two more dates came and went after kissing in the rain under the safety of Ben’s coat. Shy flirting and reserved sexual energy continued to flow between us, but our dates never ended with anything more than a delicious kiss but with increasingly heavy touches.

  He made me feel beautiful in so many more ways than just my appearance. My self-doubt was starting to hide in corners and had become a much smaller version of what it had been before Ben. We talked every day and we texted every chance we could.

  Ben: What’s your position on hair?

  Me: Hair?

  Ben: Chest hair

  Me: I’ve never really given it much thought…

  Ben: I may have some chest hair going on!

  My phone lit up with a picture message. He was standing in front of a mirror with his white work shirt unbuttoned to reveal a very impressive amount of hair across his pecs and running down to his belly button. I stared at the picture with a desperate ache to run my fingers across his chest.

  Me: I like

  Ben: Really? Good, it’s been a concern

  Me: How are you with nipples?

  Ben: I’m good with nipples!??

  Me: I have big nipples. What are your views?

  Ben: Is this a trick question? Is it a ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ type of question that can never be answered correctly?

  Me: No. It’s a concern. Like your chest hair is a concern for you.

  Ben: I think I’ll cope, but just to be sure, maybe a picture would help. You know, like mine helped you.

  Me: Don’t push your luck

  ‘What’s making you laugh? Or rather, who?’ Mum was standing behind me in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s Ben,’ I said with my phone still in my hand and a blush across my face. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘You read my mind,’ she smiled. ‘Tell me, when do I get to see a picture of him?’ She fiddled with her glasses before putting them on. ‘I’m feeling optimistic about this,’ she said, smiling knowingly in that certain way that all mums do.

  ‘Mum, we’re taking this slow, OK.’

  As she acknowledged me with a nod, I handed her my phone. Her smile lingered as Ben’s face filled the screen. He was wearing a white t-shirt that displayed his amazing upper body and shoulders. He was rocking the just the right amount of stubble look that I so favoured and his hair looked effortlessly styled, although I was fairly certain it had taken him various waxes, gels, sprays and a good ten minutes to achieve the messy look.

  ‘He’s a God. Oh my God. God, he’s beautiful. In a manly way.’

  ‘He’s taking me out for the day tomorrow. We’re going to the coast. Do you want to meet him?’

  ‘Are you ready for that?’ she asked as she studied the ends of my hair, probably searching for split ends.

  ‘No, but I need to take a chance, don’t I?’

  ‘I want you to be happy. I want you to have the best. Your words, remember?’

  I nodded, embarrassed at my naïvety. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life feeling like I’d stood at the back of the buffet queue, finally working my way to the front only to discover all the food had gone apart from a few pieces of cheese on cocktail sticks. I hated cheese. I wanted pulled pork sandwiches or Yorkshire puddings filled with beef.

  The next day, Ben enthusiastically agreed to pick me up from home so he could meet my parents. My mum studied him intently as he walked down the driveway towards the front door. She was like a lion planning its next kill. Poor Ben. He had no idea what he was walking into.

  ‘He’s too handsome, Elle. Just too handsome.’ She was practically drooling. It was quite unnerving.

  I left her in the living room to compose herself while I went to open the door, stroking the belly of the small gold Buddha Mum had on the shelf in the hallway. It was my way of keeping the karma flowing. It had grown into a stupid superstition leaving me captive to stroke the trinket every time I walked in or rushed out of the door. It had never felt more fitting to stroke my fingertips across it.

  Ben gave me a sweet kiss on the cheek and rested his hand at the bottom of my spine. I loved the sweet side of him, but the naughty side, the one I craved and desired, would be reserved only for me.

  ‘Mrs Davis, Mr Davis, it’s great to meet you.’ He took my mum’s hand in his and moved forward to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘Come in. Do you want a drink? Food? I could whip up a trifle?’ she said in a fluster.

  He produced a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

  ‘No, thank you, I wanted to give you these.’ He smiled and winked at me as Mum took them through to the kitchen to put them in water.

  The conversation between the four of us was easy. Ben was the perfect gentleman. My dad was his usual quiet self, but his small smile told me that he liked Ben. Mum’s opinion of him was pretty certain. She had her flirt game on and was set on winning.

  ‘I love your jacket, Ben.’ She brushed her hands down his arm, using his jacket as an opportunity to cop a sneaky feel. I rolled my eyes and caught him trying to stop himself from laughing.

  ‘Thank you; I love clothes. I’m a bit of a designer label junkie.’

  My mum nearly popped a hip as she bounced and clapped. ‘Elle loves shopping too! You two have so much in common! Show him your Mulberry purse.’

  ‘Shall we go?’ I suggested.

  ‘Hang on a minute. I haven’t asked Ben anything about himself yet. Are you a home owner, Ben?’ Here come the questions on the prospective boyfriend checklist.

  ‘No, I’m currently sharing. I’ve not been working long. It’s my first job, so I want to get some savings behind me before I look to buy.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ I could hear the cogs turning. That answer would get a big tick.

  ‘What about your family? Are you close?’

  ‘Yes, very. Family is massively important to me.’

  Even bigger tick.

  ‘It is. You’re right. Good. Very good.’ She was practically beaming.

  Further questions included his views on couples living together before marriage, joint bank accounts, and life insurance. All questions were slotted in between offers of snacks and cups of tea.

  Ben followed my mum into the kitchen with a tray of empty teacups. Through the crack of the door, I watched him talking to her. I
could hear faint snippets of their conversation.

  ‘We’re taking it slow. I won’t hurt her.’

  My mum had her hand to her mouth throughout and tears were forming in her eyes.

  When they came out of the kitchen, Mum whispered in my ear, ‘You know when I said you wouldn’t find perfection?’ I nodded my head in recognition. ‘I was wrong.’

  Ben handled my parents perfectly, but when we got in the car and he huffed out a long breath, I knew it had been a trial.

  ‘Your mum can talk, can’t she?’ He grinned as he placed his hand in mine.

  I was wearing a simple floral tea dress with a denim jacket. Although summer was only just beginning to nudge spring out of the way, the weather allowed me to show some leg. Something Ben clearly appreciated.

  ‘She can flirt too,’ I replied flatly. ‘I think she’s in love with you.’

  He laughed before turning serious. ‘She has quite a talent for flirting, but it’s OK. I’m feeling better about it all because I’ve just realised that I get to see your legs for the first time.’

  He moved his hand tentatively and oh so lightly across my knee before quickly removing it, igniting so many sensations in my body. I had cursed the extra minutes that shaving my legs had added to my morning routine, but thanked the little Buddha in the hallway for the resurge of karma knowing that Ben had felt silky smooth skin under his fingertips instead of prickly, sandpaper legs.

  ‘I’m imagining how that leg of yours would feel wrapped around me,’ he said. I swallowed slowly and pulled my lip under my teeth.

  ‘How does it feel in your imagination?’ I asked cautiously, our sexual side still in the early stages of being discovered.

  ‘Definitely nowhere near as good as it would feel in reality.’ I melted as I experienced serious sensory overload.

  The journey to the coast was charged with sexual energy. We spent most of the time stealing glances at each other, and at times, I caught his eyes roaming down my legs. Our conversation swung between sweet and swoonworthy, and hot and scorching, and I couldn’t help but tease him with the sole intention of raising the temperature.

  ‘Mr Newman, I do believe you’re spending a great deal of time staring at my legs when your eyes should be fixed firmly on the road. I’m genuinely worried for our safety.’

  ‘Miss Davis, you should have thought about your safety when you chose such a flirty little dress for such a long journey. I suspect you did it on purpose and didn’t really give a flying fuck about safety.’

  His eyes caressed my legs for the fortieth time that hour.

  Our teasing became more sexual the closer we got to the coast. It must have been the sea air. ‘Tell me your favourite sexual position,’ I asked, brazenly.

  I noticed a blush colouring his cheeks. ‘All of them are good.’

  ‘If you aren’t giving me specifics, tell me the sexiest thing you’ve ever done to a woman.’

  His eyes were firmly fixed on the road ahead, but a small smile rested on his mouth. ‘Erm, let me have a think about that,’ he laughed nervously. I started to worry that I had taken things too far until he replied. ‘You asked for it, so here goes…erm, well, one girl liked me to masturbate.’

  I closed my eyes and tried to squeeze away the ache between my legs. ‘So, she liked to watch you come?’ I asked, my eyes still closed, secretly imagining Ben with his cock in his hand, stroking it from root to tip.

  ‘She liked to watch, yes. She liked more than watching. I’m not sure you’re ready to hear this.’ His smirk grew wider. He was teasing me and I was falling for the bait.

  ‘Oh, I’m ready,’ I said, licking my lips as he watched my tongue with fierce interest.

  ‘She liked me to come on her. I enjoyed coming on her,’ he stuttered.

  Jesus…

  ‘You gave her a pearl necklace?’ I gasped in mock horror. ‘You dirty, dirty boy.’ We both laughed, but the bulge in his trousers told me it wasn’t a joke. I was feeling all kinds of horny but ever so slightly out of my comfort zone. The closest Luke’s sperm got to my body was when it was tightly secured in a knotted condom.

  Once we arrived, our first stop was a quirky café that specialised in homemade slabs—not slices—of cake. The portion sizes were epic, but I never turned down a challenge. Cakes are made to be eaten and enjoyed, not to be left to go stale. No one wanted to see that happen. Bring on the cake.

  My quirky boy took a packet of hand wipes out of his jacket pocket and wiped the table, removing any cake crumbs and remnants from the previous occupants before dusting the chair with his hands and squirting a generous amount of hand gel into his palms. He painstakingly worked the liquid into every possible exposed area of skin, slotting his fingers together and wringing his hands until he was satisfied that he had removed every last germ. He offered the bottle to me, so I followed his ritual. I didn’t miss the final wipe he gave the bottle of hand gel before dropping it back into his pocket.

  ‘I love people-watching,’ I declared as he smashed the fork through his carrot cake. I was almost tempted to feel disappointed in his poor choice. In my eyes, vegetables did not belong anywhere near a cake. I questioned if we were just too different because of our cake preferences—until he ordered a giant chocolate milkshake with extra cream and chocolate pieces on top, totally resurrecting our compatibility.

  ‘It’s my favourite thing to do. See that couple over there?’ He pointed to a man and woman sitting opposite each other. They were in their early forties and worlds apart in body language. ‘He’s just told her he’s having an affair. She’s admitted that she knew all along, but after three kids, she simply didn’t have the time or energy to make love to him; plus, her libido left her with the last child’s placenta, so she silently gave him permission to climb on top of his colleague.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ I replied as I leant in and whispered, ‘Do you think they will separate or stay together?’

  ‘Definitely stay together in happily married mistress-on-the-side bliss. It suits her because she doesn’t have to sleep with him, and my God, it definitely suits him because he gets to have regular, dirty sex.’

  ‘You’ve missed your calling in life. You should have been a social worker.’

  I laughed behind my hand.

  He licked the frosting off his fingers and gestured for me to taste the carrot cake. I screwed my face up in disgust. ‘Don’t tell me you fall into the category of people who can’t trust a cake that contains vegetables?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve got me all figured out.’

  ‘Well, you’re thinking about it all wrong. What better way to get one of your five a day than from eating it disguised in cake?’ He prodded his finger into the side of his head. ‘It’s those kind of thoughts that highlight just what a great dad I’m going to make.’ His face dropped as he realised the heaviness of his words. ‘Not that I’m pointing that out to you or trying to tempt you. I meant it as a joke. Fuck!’

  I laughed, putting my hand over my mouth to hide my nervous smile. ‘What’s the soundtrack of your life?’ I asked, trying to move the conversation away from babies, or more specifically, Ben’s babies and how cute they would be. He looked at me like I had just asked him to play a rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’ on the ukulele.

  ‘I’m going to need more,’ he replied as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. ‘But I like the change of subject. Subtle.’

  ‘You must have a song you listen to that represents you or a moment in your life. It’s a film soundtrack but based on your life story,’ I explained.

  ‘I’m going to have to think about that one,’ he said, tapping his fingers against his chin. ‘So many songs to chose from. I’m not sure where to start.’ He broke into a broad smile.

  ‘All right, Mr Sarcasm.’

  ‘I’ve thought of one. “Falling into You” by Celine Dion.’ His voice didn’t crack, and he avoided eye contact when he lifted a loaded fork to his mouth. The thought of this man in front of me all rugged and sex
y with just the right amount of stubble dusted across his face listening to Celine Dion left me lost for words.

  ‘It’s a true classic. The high note at the end speaks to me on another level,’ he said before breaking out into a big smile. ‘Got you,’ he said as he clapped his hands together.

  ‘Oh my God! I had no idea what to say,’ I laughed.

  ‘Your face!’ he said as he rocked back in his chair and lifted his eyes to the blue sky. ‘You can’t just spring, “What’s the soundtrack of your life?” on me. I need time to mull it all over,’ he said, finishing the last piece of cake and wiping his hands with a wet wipe hidden inside his jacket pocket.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something. What’s with the wet wipes?’

  He looked up, embarrassment flashing across his face. ‘Oh sorry, I don’t even know I’m doing it anymore. I wasn’t joking about the hand washing thing and the cleaning thing. I have OCD. I can control it. I’m not weird or anything. I’ve just developed it over the years.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I just thought I’d ask. We all have our little ways, don’t we?’

  ‘Really? Tell me yours.’

  ‘I can’t bear to throw things away. Keepsakes mainly.’

  ‘Oh no. Are you a hoarder? You’re a hoarder aren’t you?’ he laughed. ‘I thought my OCD confession was big!’

  ‘No, I’m not a hoarder,’ I smiled. ‘You must have keepsakes? Your favourite childhood book or your first teddy bear with its eye missing?’

  ‘The creepy looking ones that come alive when the lights go out for the night?’

  ‘No. A cuddly keepsake of your innocent childhood years,’ I laughed, rolling my eyes at his sarcasm.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Nope? Nothing?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘You must have some keepsakes. Baby clothes? Baby photo album?’

  ‘No. All of that got lost when my parents separated. Or possibly my dad threw them on a bonfire for a cleansing ritual after the divorce,’ he deadpanned.

  ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘He didn’t really. It was a joke.’

  ‘No! I mean it’s sad that you have nothing to remember your childhood by.’