He might have a woman who was off on a girl’s weekend or away for work and he felt safe to go on the prowl and in doing so, being as he was, looking like he did, knowing he’d get lucky, he’d hidden the evidence and forgot the bath salts.
But if he had a woman who used bath salts, there’d be a lot of evidence to hide and there wasn’t even an extra toothbrush, much less a stray tube of mascara he missed. Not in my as-non-invasive-as-I-could-make-it perusal that I’d seen.
Maybe he was a man who liked baths or he took them after a massage, when everyone knew you threw in some Epsom salts to help leech out the toxins.
Perhaps he liked to smell good.
He embodied and defied the name “Johnny.” He was a man who knew precisely what he wanted in bed, so he took it, and if he had to drag it, position it, stretch it, flex it, brace it, he did.
He could take as many scented baths as he wanted.
I walked out and saw him still at the railing at his balcony. He was standing straight now, but braced into a hand on the railing, holding the coffee mug aloft, close to his mouth, but not sipping, eyes still contemplating the view.
Quickly, I took in his space.
Mid-century furniture everywhere. Not stuff he’d inherited when he moved in. It was new. Handsome. Clean lines. Boxy. No nonsense. In tweeds and leathers and light wood. Everything, including the bed, the copious bookshelves (filled with copious books) and the easy chair in the corner was sparse and sleek, like Johnny had hit an auction of the dressings of the Mad Men sets and furnished his home with his buys.
It was unbelievably cool.
The kitchen he’d worked with as it was. It had nothing trendy. No cement, granite or marble countertops. No fancy swoosh-closed cabinets. There were butcher-block countertops that were so old, they were smooth everywhere, warped in places, wavy in oft-used spots. Stark-fronted cabinets and open shelves.
Though he’d replaced the appliances with a stainless-steel dishwasher, fridge and stove that were high quality and expensive, if not top of the line.
I spied the coffee. I saw the white coffee mugs on an open shelf above the coffeemaker and a bottle of creamer out on the counter.
I went there and made myself a cup.
As I moved toward the balcony, I saw Johnny was no longer in peaceful contemplation of the verdant surroundings of his water wheel, brilliantly furnished with bathroom-to-die-for home.
He must have noted my movement, maybe even noticed I was out of bed and had gone to the bathroom. But regardless, his regard was now aimed through the wall of windows.
At me.
I opened the glass door and walked out, shutting it behind me and looking back to Johnny, only to stop because he was looking at his T-shirt on my body.
Perhaps the intimacy of that, and me helping myself to coffee (and bathroom, toothpaste and mouthwash) wasn’t welcome.
I’d never hooked up. Not in my life. I dated. I had a firm five-date rule before even groping (this mostly due to shyness, but also my prudishness, which I had reason to believe I held on to because it assisted in me being so shy), so I obviously hadn’t slept with a man hours after meeting him.
I didn’t know the protocol when you woke up in a mostly strange man’s bed, no matter how handsome, gentlemanly or what a good listener he was.
“Although I appreciate the unadulterated view of those legs, not to mention that hair, I’d prefer you get your ass over here, Izzy.”
This amused command jolted me out of my apprehension and I slowly moved on my bare feet through the cool early summer Sunday morning toward Johnny Gamble.
He hadn’t taken his hand from the railing but he did put his coffee cup to it so he could have a free hand to curve around my waist.
This he did, pulling me up tight to his side and dipping his chin into his neck to look down at me.
I liked that. Being tall, I didn’t get that often, a man looking down at me, having to go to such lengths to do it as to shift his chin into his neck.
This had to put Johnny at six-two, maybe even six-three.
Yes, I liked that a lot.
I also liked the warmth of his body. I’d noticed just how warm it was in bed last night and it helped things (that his talents really didn’t need help with, but still), and it helped them in nice ways.
And last, I liked the solidness of him and this didn’t come just from him being built. It came from him looking right into my eyes, taking hold of me right away, making me feel welcome there, like he was glad I used his toothpaste, his mouthwash (even though he didn’t know that . . . yet), helped myself to a cup of coffee, woke up naked in his bed.
He wasn’t going to load me up in his truck and take me back to my car in town and be done with me, not looking back.
This was something else.
This was . . .
It was the beginning of something.
I relaxed in his hold.
“Hey,” I whispered.
His mouth hitched.
“Hey.” He slid his hand down my side to my hip as he asked, “Sleep good?”
I nodded because I had but also because the movement of his hand had so much of my attention I couldn’t speak.
It got more attention when his fingers met the hem of his shirt I was wearing and pulled it up.
Therefore, it came out kind of squeaky when I asked, “Did you? Sleep good, I mean.”
I also felt my cheeks getting warm and Johnny didn’t miss it. I knew this as his black eyes started twinkling even as the tips of his fingers found the waistband of my panties.
“I slept great,” he murmured, and then didn’t hesitate to go on, “Panties?”
“Sorry?” I asked, confused at his question perhaps because his fingers were trailing along the waistband of the item of clothing we were oddly discussing and it felt nice.
“Panties,” he repeated, not in a question this time.
“Yes, those are, uh . . . my panties,” I confirmed.
This got me the bright, white, beautiful smile. “Babe, why’d you put on your panties?”
I blinked up at him.
His fingers slid inside the waistband to lightly cup one cheek of my behind.
My lips parted.
“Sweet, shy Eliza,” he muttered like he was referencing me to someone else even if he was gazing right into my eyes. “Gonna have to break you of that.”
Yes.
Oh God, please let it be yes.
This was the beginning of something.
“You hungry?” he asked conversationally.
I nodded, not really knowing if I was or I wasn’t. Mostly knowing I liked the warmth and possessiveness of his hand down my pants.
“Wanna fuck before or after I feed you?” he inquired.
My legs wobbled.
He felt it, I knew because that got me another smile, this one less sweet and oh-so-much-more sexy.
“Both,” he whispered, his head coming toward mine. “Starting with before.”
“Johnny,” I whispered back, but I did it with my lips moving against his.
His eyes were open, they were close, because I’ll note again, his lips were against mine, when he answered, “Yeah?”
“My coffee,” I noted idiotically.
Sadly, his lips went away.
Then my coffee went away and was set on the railing by his.
Then his lips were back.
“I haven’t even taken a sip,” I announced, again looking in his eyes so close, I could count the (abundant) eyelashes.
“Make you three pots after I make you come,” he mumbled then moved infinitesimally closer.
“Johnny,” I said urgently, again waylaying the kiss for no reason at all.
He was a good kisser. The best. The best I’d ever had.
By far.
Still, I was me.
So I was nervous.
“Izzy,” he replied.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Shut up.”
I shut up.
>
And then, finally, he kissed me.
The Code to His Phone
Izzy
IT WAS ME that switched it up.
It was me who made him let me take over.
I didn’t know why I did it. I didn’t know that I had it in me to do it. I didn’t even think about any of this stuff.
I just did it.
The night before, Johnny had dragged, pulled, shifted, hauled and anything else he wanted to do to get me where he wanted me to be. On my back. On my knees. On his face.
That morning, it started out the same way. It started out like it had continued after the first time the night before.
The first time being fast and hungry and urgent and spectacular.
The rest of it was slow and hot and unhurried and spectacular.
That morning, it was the second kind.
Until I switched it up.
Until I took over.
It was when I was naked and he was naked.
It was when I was sopping wet and he was rock hard.
It was when every inch of me buzzed, and that buzz shimmered deeper from anything he did—a touch, a kiss, a lick, a nip—but also just looking at him, the harshness of sex set in his face, the dilation of his black eyes taking them from bright to blazing.
It was then I pushed him to his back, and at first he allowed it since I could tell he wanted it, because he was willing, for that moment, to go with my flow in order to move me into his new flow.
But when I held his shoulders down, straddled him, feeling his hard cock graze the damp curls between my legs, and I looked into his face, he stilled.
I did not.
I bent to him, sweeping my lips from his neck down to his collarbone up to his shoulder, thrilling in the warm silken skin over hard muscle my lips encountered.
I found his hand, laced my fingers in his and pulled it away from his body. After that, I trailed my lips down his arm, stopping to kiss the bulge of his biceps, moving on to lightly nip the skin at the inside juncture of his elbow.
Then I sat up abruptly, taking his hand with me.
I unlaced our fingers so I could flatten his hand against my chest, my eyes locked to his. Slowly, I drew his hand down my chest, between my breasts, over my belly.
And he held my eyes.
He didn’t look at his hand. My body.
He looked into my eyes.
God, I loved it that he kept looking into my eyes.
At my final destination, I twisted our hands, curled them in. My middle finger over his, both of them I took inside.
My head fell back.
His hips jerked.
“Izzy,” he growled.
My eyes were closed and I didn’t open them when his other hand curved around my breast, his calloused thumb rough as he dragged it across my nipple.
I started panting, feeling his finger move both of ours inside me, lifting my other hand to cover his at my breast to feel his movements there as he engaged his finger with his thumb and started rolling.
“God,” I breathed, rocking into our fingers, feeling the back of my hand slide over the underside of his hard cock.
“Look at me,” he ordered gruffly.
I didn’t look at him.
It felt so good, everything, I arched into his hand at my breast as I rode his finger inside me.
He stopped rolling with one, thrusting with the other, and I heard, “Eliza, look at me.”
I tipped my head down and slowly opened my eyes.
“I’m inside you, Iz, any way I can be inside you, you look at me,” he demanded thickly.
“Okay, Johnny,” I forced out.
“Ride it,” he commanded. “Show me.”
I rode it. I showed him. I helped him fuck me with his finger and tug at my nipple until the beauty it was causing had me whimpering, my movements desperate, my eyes floating closed.
He drove deep with our fingers, planted them there, and my eyes shot open.
“Eyes on me,” he growled.
“Yes,” I whispered, swaying into him when his finger moved again, the desperation turning to violence, urging him to fuck me brutally with our fingers, something he did, slamming my clit into the apple of his hand.
“Christ, sweet, shy Izzy, skittish as a cat, hides the wild of a sex kitten,” he murmured.
“I’m a prude,” I pushed out nonsensically.
I was barely able (but I did it, mostly because each and every one of them were exactly that good) to catch the flash of the white of his now seriously sexy smile before he replied, “Remind me of that so I can laugh when my dick’s not about to explode watching you take yourself there on my finger.”
I caught that too, just barely, not nearly enough to be embarrassed by it because I’d taken myself there on his finger.
I arched. I cried out. I ground into our fingers panting and whimpering.
In the middle of it, I lost them and was on my back in the bed.
I heard a drawer open, the wrinkling of foil, then I got him back.
Not his fingers.
His cock.
The first time the night before had been fast and hungry and urgent and spectacular.
This time we had started out slow and hot and unhurried and spectacular.
But right then, it was burning and rough and savage and totally uncontrolled.
And spectacular.
Circling my wrists with his hands and yanking them straight over my head, pinning them to the bed with his weight to hold me down at the same time giving himself leverage, Johnny hammered into me. Drilled into me. Crashing the base of his cock into my clit, pushing me over the edge yet again so I had no choice but to clutch him with everything I had available, hold on for dear life, and chant his name at the same time begging him not to stop, never to stop.
And I did this while my orgasm carried on and on, until it completely overwhelmed me and I couldn’t speak at all. I could just hold on and feel the magnificence of the climax engulfing me—us—as he groaned into my neck and powered through the jolts of his final thrusts.
When mine was waning and his was done, he collapsed on me, all his weight, his fingers manacles on my wrists, still pinning them to the bed.
And I didn’t mind.
I took his weight, his heat, his captivity because he was a man who had a great smile. Who had a way with interior design that was masculine and confident, interesting and cool. Who had a water wheel. Who opened the door on his truck to let me in and closed me in after. Who didn’t look at pretty girls who passed our barstools while he listened to me. Who made me feel sexy. Who made me feel pretty. Who made me feel so unencumbered by all the weight I carried that I’d be moved to take over, to slide his finger inside me and ride it while he watched. Who let me take over and draw him inside and ride him while he watched. And who got off on that so intensely, he’d been moved to take me rough, pinning me to his bed.
I was that girl with him.
That girl who could flirt with a handsome man and set him to scoring through four condoms. That girl he couldn’t even let her take a sip of coffee before he had to kiss her and whisk her back to his bed.
I was free and I was easy and I was sexual and I was desirable and I was funny and I was worth something.
I wasn’t Eliza Forrester, the straitlaced daughter of a hippie, the prim and proper and responsible older sister of a wild child.
I was Izzy Forrester, free and easy and sexual and desirable, who could hook up with a handsome man with a fabulous house in the woods who couldn’t get enough of her, and after one night chatting in a bar over margaritas and beer, they were starting something.
As I gloried in all of this, it slowly became clear that he wasn’t moving.
This was strange, and in a flash of panic I thought it was just my luck that I would kill the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, much less slept with, after intense, amazing, pounding sex.
Did I give him a heart attack?
“Johnny?” I called tentati
vely, and a little wispily, seeing as I was accommodating his weight.
Instantly, he moved. Not letting go of my wrists but shifting them down so my elbows were bent, the position more comfortable, at the same time taking his weight out of his hands and also miraculously some of it off me.
His face was in my neck but he moved his lips to my ear where he asked, “You okay?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
He finally lifted his head and I liked that the harshness of sex was gone, the laziness of satisfaction had taken its place, but he still had an expression of concern.
“Rode you hard, baby,” he murmured.
“Yes,” I agreed.
His gaze scanned my face.
“I’m good,” I said quietly and then gave him a small smile at the same time I gave him a hug the only way I could, tightening my legs where I had them wrapped around his thighs.
I didn’t know him, at all—well, biblically, one could say I knew him relatively well—but otherwise I didn’t know him. Still, I could swear I saw the flash of unease in his eyes before he muttered, “Gonna take care of this condom.”
After that, he slid out, let go of my wrists, disengaged, and with no further ado, got off me, out of the bed and walked naked toward the hall.
No kiss.
No cuddling.
No tender caresses and soft murmurs.
I lay in bed staring after him and continuing to stare after he disappeared into the bathroom feeling a hint of frost come. It came like in the movies, when the bad things come and the chill comes with them, at first invading a corner of a window, starting slow but then moving quickly, covering and crackling over the window, the whole house.
Except this frost swept over my body.
It took but seconds to realize that I might not have tons of experience but I did have enough to know it didn’t take years for a man to dispose of a condom.
And for this reason, I shot to sitting in bed, searching for something to cover me.
I saw my panties on one side of the bed, on the other his T-shirt, sweats, and the rest of our clothes from last night.
I didn’t have time to fully dress so I rolled toward the clothes, grabbing up his T-shirt and tugging it on at the same time dashing around the bed to snatch up my panties.
The Hookup Page 2
