She knew about Shandra and he’d tell Izzy she was coming back to town.
And he’d make her dinner tomorrow night and take her camping on the weekend and share how it was.
She seemed to understand a lot of shit. She even seemed to understand about Shandra.
Maybe he wouldn’t lose her.
Maybe they could be friends.
Maybe she’d have him over when she had her other friends over, he could eat her guacamole and get her cute and shy and smartass and know he was taking it in a way that was healthy for her, which was something that would cut. But it was something he could live with better than what he could do to her if he didn’t exit being in her life that way or not having her at all.
And maybe he was a selfish dumbfuck.
But whatever way it went, he’d explain things while they were camping.
After that, it was her choice and that was the best he could do.
It always had been.
Tight
Izzy
“PULL ME OUT.”
I heard Johnny’s growl but chose to ignore it.
And I chose to ignore it because he had his back to the pillows shoved up against his headboard, his knees cocked, feet in the bed, thighs spread wide, both his hands in my hair, and his cock was in my mouth.
He looked amazing like that, spread out for me, offered up to me: his broad shoulders, cut collarbone, wide chest with its sprinkling of black hair across his pecs, large nipples, the boxes of his abs standing out like he was doing crunches instead of getting a blowjob, the dark hair on his forearms, dense on his thick thighs.
He felt amazing in my mouth, silk over steel.
He tasted awesome, like musk and man.
And I loved who I was right then, kneeling between his legs, sucking him off, feeling what I was giving to him as his hips jerked uncontrollably, the noises that rolled up his chest and out of his mouth abrasively, his strong fingers clenching in my hair restlessly.
I was the woman who could make this man react like that, feel the way he was holding back from thrusting into my mouth, but I knew he needed it and it was costing him, because he liked what I was doing so much he wanted to take more.
And I was the woman who was dripping wet between my legs, fighting the trembling that threatened to overtake me because I liked the taste of him, the look of him, the feel of him, the knowledge of how much he got off on what I was doing to him with just my mouth, the power all that sent surging through me, vibrating in my clit, knowing in that instant he was all mine.
I wanted to take him there. I wanted to kneel between his legs and watch him explode for me. The ones I’d caught, he was beautiful in orgasm, almost agonizingly so.
And I wanted that, spread out for me, offered up to me . . . all mine.
I kept at him, sucking harder, adding a hand wrapped around him and stroking tight.
“Iz, pull me out,” he grunted.
I kept at him.
“Eliza, fucking pull me out.”
I lifted my eyes to his, pulled him out of my mouth, but stroked him harder with my hand and felt the shudder score through me at the dark hunger carved in his handsome face.
Suddenly, I was flat on my belly in the bed. A quiver ran over me when his knees pressed against the insides of my thighs, spreading them so wide I felt the pull in my muscles.
I whimpered through the sound of crinkling foil and then whispered, “Johnny.”
Fingers dug into my hips as they were hauled up.
I started to come up on all fours but Johnny planted a hand in the middle of my back, shoved me back to the bed and growled, “Down.”
That didn’t cause a quiver.
That set me to shaking.
And it set my sex to soaking.
He then caught my hair, twisting it in a fist so it pulled at my scalp and I whimpered again as I trembled before him, now offered up to him.
And loving it.
“Keep your knees wide,” he ordered, gave a rough but gentle yank on my hair and drove inside.
My neck arched, I cried out and instantly started coming.
“Like my cock?” he asked harshly, thrusting deep and fast.
“Yes,” I moaned through my orgasm.
I felt his thumb circle my anus and my legs locked, my hands clenched his sheets and my climax stuttered.
“Johnny,” I whispered.
“No, baby?”
“No.”
His thumb slid away to become his hand sliding across the cheek of my behind. He grasped my hip, kept pounding, and the climax shot back so forcefully, I was panting into the sheets.
“Arch your back,” he commanded.
I did as told.
“Give me more,” he grunted, the sound of our flesh connecting getting sharper, each slap coming faster.
I reared back into him, spread so wide, taking him hard, feeling exposed, now all his.
All Johnny’s.
And that was better.
Another orgasm began to rock through me and I gasped as it came.
“Yeah,” Johnny growled, sounding turned on and pleased, and close himself to coming.
He went faster, twisted his hand in my hair, “Now up, Izzy.”
I came up on all fours, my head back, my spine arced to the bed, my body slamming back into his drives, my climax still burning, making me do all this with full body tremors.
“God, fuck, Izzy, fuck,” he groaned.
I glanced back at him to see him watching me take his cock and another shudder tore through me.
He let my hair go, seized my hips and forced them to connect with his brutally as he took me through his orgasm, his grunts exploding in the room.
I whinnied through them, a series of hums, pants and soft cries, until he slowed, the power drifted out, gentleness drifted in, and then he finally seated himself deep and I dropped back down to the bed, my cheek against his soft sheets.
I felt it as he glided one finger lightly along my spine from where it sat between my shoulder blades, through the arch, up the small and it kept going, skating between the cheeks of my behind. My hips twitched and his finger trailed out and he flattened both hands on my bottom and pulled out.
He tipped me to my side.
I tilted my eyes up to him. He looked in them then exited the bed, flicking the sheets over my body.
I watched him walk to the bathroom, only Dempsey following him (Swirl had settled in somewhere for the night) and I was too spent to think of the steaks he’d broiled for us earlier that had some strong garlic and herbed cheese crusted on top and were utterly delicious. Or the fact he’d bought ten bottles of wine for me to choose from, four red, five white and one sparkling, all the whites chilled in the fridge.
I also didn’t think of the sated but remote look in his eyes that I caught before he left me in his bed. Nor did I think about how he said not a word after we shared the most intimate thing a man and woman could share before he took off to go deal with the condom.
This last was his way. He’d done the same thing at my house.
Though at my house, when he’d come back, he’d teased me about my girlie bathroom, focusing on the pink wire basket shelves on the wall filled with corked bottles of girlie pamper stuff and thick wash clothes and natural sponges and loofahs and pink cotton balls.