Kiss & Tell | Nicolandria FF

Part 22 - Nic

a/n: sorry for the delay i got sleepy so i slept

Nic was wondering what type of crack Taylor had been smoking for him to not want Olandria.

Nic just thought that Taylor was a weird guy. Incredibly slow burn, insistent on conversation, only pecked Olandria, didn't cuddle her. Nic just thought Taylor had a really difficult time with initiating intimacy. Or maybe the poor guy suffered from ED.

He tried everything to rationalize Taylor not wifing Olandria up as swiftly as possible.

But then Taylor fucked around and kissed Clarke on the first day, and all those theories flew out the window.

Did he simply not find Olandria that attractive? Was Clarke fun to talk to? Nic talked to her, and she was fine and friendly, but it wasn't anything spectacular. Or maybe, kissing Olandria outside of challenges was different compared to the ones in them.

But then Nic got to kiss her. And that kiss?

That beautiful, wonderful, incredible, spectacular, amazing kiss?

Taylor had to be on crack.

Either crack, or he was the biggest dumbass to exist.

Nic wasn't even breathing right. Olandria had her hand on his back, emitting that radiant giggle into the air. When was the last time Nic felt this giddy, this vibrant? He hadn't even been this bashful when Megan Thee Stallion graced his presence—even had the confidence to look the woman in the eye and twerk in her face.

He wanted to kiss her again. And again. And again. He wanted to hear her laugh, and smell her scent, and touch her skin, and listen to her talk about anything in the world, and reassure her until she believed him, and—

Why had he been so scared to make space for her? This was the most exhilarating thing he's ever done and he wanted to never get sick of this feeling. He was pretty sure he couldn't ever get sick of this feeling.

Pining for weeks for a kiss that explosive? Worth it. Entirely worth it.

Now he had to get her out of this villa.

But that meant showing up. Being a man. Giving her the space to be soft and protected by him.

(But omg omg omg this is so great; this is great, everything about this AHHHH he wanted to fucking pick up mountains and shriek and kick his feet and hide his face and tell the boys and giggle until his stomach hurt and his body felt like it was in a microwave just warming up up up. What the fuck was this feeling? Why did he take so long to do this?

Thank you, Love Island producers.)

Standing back up was a little hard. His knees were wobbly and he felt like he was gonna trip and bust his ass from how fucking giddy he was. It was almost embarrassing how fucking high he felt.

But he had to lock in. Olandria was walking down the stairs, and he had to help her down.

"Nic, I feel like you sucked my make-up off."

Pride. Overwhelming male pride. This is what it meant to be a man—have Olandria worried about her make-up. "You just shouldn't wear make-up around me then," he said, grabbing her wine glass.

Olandria rolled her eyes, pulling out her phone. "I ain't gonna stop wearing make-up for you."

"Then you gonna have to keep complaining when I mess it up," he clapped-back cheekily. She didn't respond, opening up the camera app on her phone.

Nic walked in front of her, trying to resist the urge to fucking Irish jig in front of her. This was stupid. He should stop smiling. This was stupid. This was great. He was stupid.