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 tentatively, 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.
I was settling them on my hips when Johnny appeared back in the hall.
He went right to his sweats, and I tried to take it as good he glanced at me as he did, not avoiding me, my presence or even eye contact.
He nabbed them and yanked them up as he asked, “You like eggs and bacon?”
“My mother was a vegan.”
He stopped in the process of tying the drawstring under his navel and stared at me.
His hair was even messier now, falling over his forehead and nearly into his eyes.
It made him look disheveled and more handsome than ever, especially my firsthand knowledge of and participation in how it got that way.
“I’m not,” I went on.
He kept staring at me.
“A vegan that is,” I shared. “I tried. About seven times. Even vegetarianism didn’t stick. So uh . . . yes. I like eggs and bacon.”
He slowly finished tying the drawstring on his sweats as he asked, “There a story behind all that information?”
“No, just, my mother wasn’t a vegan. She was a militant vegan,” I told him.
“Ah,” was all he said in reply, but he did it lifting his chin.