DON’T STOP

Taking her innocence 9

Lila

I bit my bottom lip. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my skirt. “Does it… hurt?”

Ryder let out a low chuckle, more breath than sound. “Not hurt. Just… insistent.”

My eyes flicked down again, lingering. Then back to his. “Because of me?”

He held my gaze. The truck was still, engine rumbling softly under us, but the world felt pinned in place. “Yeah. Because of you.”

Silence wrapped around us again. My breathing picked up. So did his.

I shifted closer on the bench seat, just an inch, but my knee brushed his. Heat shot through me at the contact. “Do you want me to… help?”

His throat worked. He searched my face with those gray eyes, wide and searching. No teasing. No games. Just him, waiting. “Lila… you don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I know.” I whispered it. Then, softer, “But I want to try.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, buying a second. “Only if you’re sure. And we go slow. You stop anytime. Say the word.”

I nodded, quick and small.

He reached over and killed the engine. Quiet rushed in—no rumble, no dust, just us. He leaned back against the seat, legs spreading a little wider to give me room. His hands stayed loose on his thighs. No grabbing. No guiding. This was all me.

I hesitated for a heartbeat. Then my hand moved, slow and tentative, resting on his knee first. My fingers trembled just enough for me to feel it. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe louder than necessary.

Higher. Over his thigh. Closer.

When my palm finally cupped him through the jeans, he hissed low between his teeth. The pressure felt strange under my hand, light and unsure, but it was him. That made my stomach flip. I froze, eyes flying to his face.

“Is that okay?” I asked, voice barely there.

“More than okay,” he managed. “Keep going. Whatever feels right to you.”

I swallowed. Nodded. Then I started to rub, slow strokes at first, palm sliding up and down the length of him through the denim. My grip was loose and exploratory, like I was trying to figure out a map I’d never seen before. Sometimes too soft, sometimes squeezing a little too hard in the wrong spot, rhythm all over the place. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t practiced. I could feel my cheeks burning hotter every time my hand slipped or hesitated.

He groaned low in his throat when my thumb accidentally brushed over the head. I jumped a little at the sound but didn’t stop. Just watched his face, learning. Adjusting. Trying again, firmer here, slower there.

“Like this?” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Just like that, sweetheart.”

My hands were shaking as I popped the button of his jeans next. I eased the zipper down slowly. The relief on his face made him groan again. I slipped my hand inside his boxers, skin on skin, and he fisted his hands on his thighs like he was holding himself back.

My fingers wrapped around him. Warm. Hard. Throbbing. I stroked up and down, my thumb swiping clumsily over the tip, spreading the slickness I found there. The pace was messy, fast for a few strokes, then slowing when I second-guessed myself. Grip tightening then loosening. I didn’t know if I was doing it right, but every time he groaned or his hips twitched, it felt like maybe I was.

I watched him the whole time. The way his brow furrowed, the way his jaw clenched, and the way his breathing turned ragged every time I found a spot that made him hiss. My cheeks got redder with every sound he made. I glanced up at him like I needed approval, like his reactions were the only guide I had.

After everything today—my first orgasm from someone else’s hands, the way my nerves had twisted into something electric, and all those quiet questions still swirling in my head—I still wanted to be here… with him. Hand on him. Wanting to give something back.

I couldn’t stop replaying it: how he’d made me cry out, how the pleasure had ripped through me like nothing I’d ever felt before. That was what a real climax felt like. Intense. Overwhelming. Impossible to explain. It was so much more than anything I’d ever managed on my own—deeper, brighter, almost too much to hold. I didn’t think I could have stopped at one if he’d kept going.

Maybe… maybe I really did want to explore this side of myself. This s*x life I’d barely touched. And Ryder might be the only one who could help me do it. No guy at school had ever wanted to date me. I was pretty enough, smart enough, and kind enough—or at least I thought I was. But somehow, I was always unlucky with boys. Always the friend. Always overlooked. Always waiting.

Until now.

He didn’t look at me like I was invisible. He looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

And right now, with my hand wrapped around him, feeling him throb under my uncertain touch, that felt like the most dangerous and exciting thing of all.

I looked up at him and saw how pleasure seemed to coil in him. I could feel it in the way he tensed, the way his breaths got shorter. But it never quite tipped over. My rhythm faltered again, too light at the base, too quick at the head, and the edge slipped away. He didn’t push. Didn’t guide. He just let me keep going, let me explore, and let me feel how much power I had even when I didn’t know exactly what I was doing.

I kept going. Minutes stretched. My arm started to tire. I could feel it in the way my strokes slowed and the way my wrist ached, but I didn’t want to stop. Not yet. I just kept that determined little rhythm, eyes flicking between his face and my hand like I was memorizing both.

He groaned again, low and ragged. “Lila… you’re killing me in the best way.”

I smiled, small, shy, and proud. “Is it good?”

“Better than good.” He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from my face. “You have no idea.”

I ducked my head, cheeks flaming, but my hand didn’t stop.

Eventually, I slowed. Not because he asked, but because my wrist was aching. I could see it in the way I flexed my fingers. I looked up at him, uncertain. “Did I… do it right?”

He cupped my cheek gently. “You did more than right. You have no idea how much I needed that.”

I pulled my hand free slowly. He hissed at the loss, still hard, still throbbing, but he didn’t push. He caught my wrist, brought my palm to his mouth, and kissed it softly. I could taste the faint salt of him on my skin when I licked my lips later.

We sat there. Truck quiet. The sun dipping lower. My breathing still quick. His too.