“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.