Nell Jones is not a child.
The sultry whimpers, ecstasy addled moans, and pleasured gasps, all speak of a woman, mature and sexual. White hot pleasure buzzes down her spine, settling in her stomach like a fire crackling in a hearth, low and warm and leaving her glowing from the inside out. It sparkles in her eyes, blowing out her pupils, and darkening the iris from a soft hazel to a darker brown with barest hints of seafoam green.
Oh God, those eyes.
So wide and large and framed by doll-like lashes. And, her cheeks, soft porcelain skin with a watercolor red flush blossoming along her sharp cheekbones, and the slight concave of a cute little dimple. His hips twitch, because somehow all of her childish features suddenly seemed more like those of a goddess, all warm sensuality and sharp beauty. A flirty bat of her lashes, sizzling stare pinning him to the mattress, frying his over-heated skin. Hips lurching upward, seeking purchase in the depths of something he knows can drive him out of his mind. He wants it, needs it even, but she just won't give in.
Not yet.
Even as he writhes beneath her gaze, sweat pooling, and eyes closed.
She nibbles the inside of her cheek, contemplative, yet so mischievous and knowing. Oh, she knows exactly what she intends to do to him. She has calculated every single move, every kiss, lick, bite, and roll of those wonderfully curvaceous hips.
"Not." lick. "a." luscious hip roll. "child."
And, as his eyes roll back in his head, G. Callen is inclined to agree.
This is inspired partially by my need for Nallen and partially because in some ways, I think Callen does see Nell as a bit of a child, even though she's proven herself in the field more than once. And...yeah, so I basically wrote this to satisfy my need for nallen. First time. Be gentle. Leave me some love, dolls!
Love,
RobertDowneyJrLove