Page 30

“I want you to stroke your clit for me,” he said. “Come on, Poppy. Let me hear you. Tell me how it feels.”

I moved my fingers and cried out. Johnny groaned on the other line.

“Jesus, baby…talk to me.”

“I need something inside me,” I rushed out.

“You have a vibrator?”

“Yes—”

“Get it.”

I fumbled for the nightstand drawer, got it open, found what I was looking for. My hands were shaking slightly.

"Okay," I breathed. "Okay, I've got it."

"Good." A pause. "Turn it on. Low."

I did. The sound of it in the quiet apartment felt obscene and perfect.

"Tell me when you're ready," he said.

"I'm ready," I said immediately.

A low sound. Almost amused. "Slow down."

"Johnny—"

"I said slow down." Not harsh. Just certain, the way he was certain about everything. "You're not rushing this. We're doing this right." A pause. "Run it over yourself first. Outside. Don't put it in yet."

I whimpered.

"I know," he said. "Do it anyway."

I did what he told me, and the sound I made was completely involuntary—loud in the quiet apartment, embarrassing, and he responded to it immediately with a low exhale that told me he was not as unaffected as he sounded.

"Good," he said. "How does that feel?”

"So good," I managed. "Really good. I need⁠—"

"Not yet." Another pause. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

"You," I said. "Your hands. The way you had me on the counter⁠—"

"What else?”

"Your voice." I pressed my head back. "The way you talk to me."

"Yeah?" Low. Rough. "What do you want me to do to you, Poppy. When I get my hands on you Tuesday. Tell me."

"I want—" I exhaled. "I want you to touch me like this but actually you. I want your fingers."

"You'll have them."

"I want your mouth."

A beat. "You'll have that too."