#readerxjohnny

You don’t remember Johnny drawing the blinds closed the night before, but he must have, because when you wake up, the room is completely dark. You’ll have to ask what brand of blackout curtains he has, because if someone told you it was still nighttime, you’d believe them.

Or, you would, if you didn’t smell the faintest hint of coffee.

Johnny’s side of the bed is empty, but still warm, so he can’t have been up for long. Groaning, you sit up and mentally assess your body. You’re sore all over, the sting on your ass especially prominent, but you relish in the ache. It’s been a while since you’ve had anything like that, so you can’t complain.

You slip out of bed and pad over to the windows, squinting against the dark so you don’t trip and die. You find the control pad on the wall and tap it to turn it on, and then press the button to raise the blinds. The machinery whirs to life, a low hum breaking the silence of the room, and immediately, bright sunlight spills across the floor, blinding you temporarily. You find the blanket Johnny had lent you last night, and wrap it around your shoulders before making your careful way downstairs.

Johnny is in the kitchen, cooking, when you enter. He turns, seeing you out of the corner of his eye, and gives you a bright smile. He’s wearing a cute t-shirt and pajama shorts, and a dumb little blue apron.

“Good morning,” he says. “Would you like some coffee? I washed out the French press.” He nods at it, sitting on the counter. “Coffee is in the cupboard, and cream is in the fridge.”

“Oh, thank you,” you say, going to make yourself some. “What are you cooking? It smells nice.”

“Pancakes,” he says. “I hope that’s okay. You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

You laugh. “No, I don’t. Pancakes sound great.”

You slip into a seat, coffee percolating happily in the press, and watch him cook. You can see the lean muscles of his back even through his baby-pink t-shirt, and you watch the movement as he slides some finished pancakes onto a plate, stacking them high.

“Are you busy today?” he asks lightly as he pours more batter into the pan.

“Not terribly,” you say, pressing the coffee grounds down. “I mean, I should probably at least try to get some work done at some point, but there’s no rush. If you need me out of your hair, though, that’s fine.”

He flashes you a grin over his shoulder before turning back to his cooking. “No, please stay,” he says. “I don’t have anything that really needs doing. And I’d love the company.”

“Works for me,” you say, smiling back.

You chat a little as he finishes cooking, and fall into comfortable silence once he brings the food to the table and you start eating. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you take the first bite—the K-bbq from last night seems so far away.

“These are so good,” you tell him when you get your wits about you again. “You definitely downplayed your cooking skills.”

“Oh, thank you,” he says, grinning. “Family recipe. Big secret.” You laugh at him as he wiggles his eyebrows.

You insist on helping him wash up after you’re done eating, clearing the counter and putting things away. When you’re done, he beckons you over, sitting down on one of the stools, and patting the one next to him, where your blanket is still draped where you left it. You obey, a little confused.

“Hey, um,” he begins. “So we should probably talk about last night.” You give him a nervous look, and he waves it off quickly. “No, no, I just—um. We did a lot of things that I didn’t really—ask if they were okay before I did them. I thought about it, but I didn’t want to ruin the mood and—well. It was a little irresponsible of me, so I apologize. I just wanted to make sure that I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Johnny,” you say, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “If I didn’t like it, I would’ve told you so. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t okay with any of it.”

“I figured, I just wanted to check,” he says, looking a little sheepish. “I mean I did—I did call you a slut, which is a word my mother would beat my ass for saying if she knew. And she’s probably right.”

“You’re such an interesting person,” you comment, amused, and he blinks at you, at a loss. “Okay, so for the record—yes, I did like that, so stop worrying. But it’s just so funny to me, that you can be so—well, like that in the bedroom, but still manage to be so like this otherwise.”

“I try my best to be responsible,” he says, laughing a little. “I know I can get intense.”

“Well,” you say, resting your elbow on the counter and your cheek on your palm, “I like intense.”

“Yeah?” He looks at you, mischief now lurking behind his eyes. “I think we should talk about it. I want to know what you’re down for. Because—there’re a lot of things I want to try with you.”

You grin. “Like what?”

“I mean, so obviously you like getting smacked around and choked,” he starts, ticking it off on his fingers. “You like it when I call you a slut, but you also like it when I call you ‘babygirl’, which is fun.” You just smile. “And you like calling me daddy.”

“Mm, yes,” you say, your smile growing. You lean forward a little, scooting your stool closer to his. “But we already knew all that.”

He gives you a warning glance. “I can be very strict,” he prefaces. “I like to get really rough. It’s a system; it’s almost like a game. We make rules, and then if you don’t follow them, there’s consequences.”

“Yeah? What do you have in mind?”

He leans in and gives you a quick kiss. “Well, spanking for attitude. Choking if you still don’t fall in line. Orgasm delay; I’ll tie you up if you touch yourself without my permission. Handcuff you if you touch me without permission.”

“What, like this?” You sneak your hands onto his thighs, gripping lightly, reveling in the feeling of his strong quads beneath your palms.

He’s lifting you up in an instant, hands on your waist. You gasp a little as your ass thuds against the counter. Once you’re settled, he takes your wrists and pins them behind your back. “Yeah, like that,” he hisses. You hum, struggling against his hold just to test it. You’re strong, but he’s stronger.

“Hm,” you say, nonchalant. “Guess you’ll have to punish me, then.”

Johnny gives you an almost exasperated look, and then sighs and lets you go, moving to shuck off his shirt. Curious, you don’t move, choosing to watch him instead. You’re surprised when he twists up the shirt and holds it out. “Okay,” he says. “Hands.” You smile a little and offer him your wrists. Luckily, there’s a lot of t-shirt, so it’s easy for him to double-knot it with plenty to spare. He tugs experimentally, then asks, “Does it feel okay?”

You nod, smile growing, leaning forward into his space. “Green,” you murmur.

“Good.” He gives you the kiss you’re looking for, but deepens it, coaxing you to lean back. You don’t have your hands to support you, but he catches you, big palm braced against your spine. You kiss back, hungry, keeping your bound hands in your lap even though all you want to do is reach out and touch. You’re still hurting from last night, and you have a feeling Johnny will do fine at roughing you up on his own without any antagonizing.

You’re right. A few moments later, he’s lowering you onto your back, and then he stands, pulling your hips forward so he can pull your panties down. His tongue presses to your clit, swiping back and forth and then circling around it before breaking away with a kiss. You reach for him weakly, hands flexing against the t-shirt, an almost involuntary response.

Johnny doesn’t miss it. He slaps your hands, and then points. “Above your head. Keep them there, or you don’t get to come.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, shivering at his tone. You do as you’re told; your arms hang off the other side of the counter just a bit, but you don’t mind. Johnny, much to your relief, goes back to eating you out, pushing a spit-slick finger into your pussy. You sigh, and focus on the monumental task of keeping your hips still.

Johnny adds a second finger, then a third, and then a fourth, barely coming up for breath, his tongue flicking over your clit, sending waves of arousal across your body. He curls his fingers up slightly, and you moan out loud, shaking when he does it again, and again, and again.

He finally gives your clit a break, standing and running his free hand down your side. Goosebumps follow his touch even though you’re still wearing your big t-shirt. He scrunches up the material and pushes it high to expose your chest. His hand comes up to your tits, and he rolls one of your nipples under his thumb, smiling when you gasp. “Feel good, babygirl?” he asks.

“Yes, daddy,” you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. “Would feel better if you’d fuck me.”

He releases your chest in favor of taking your jaw in his hand, squeezing against the bone just a little. “Is that how you talk to me?”

“Only if you let me,” you say. He tightens his grip, jostling you a little. “I mean,” you amend, “no.”

“That’s what I thought,” he says, leaning in closer. “My little slut doesn’t ever talk like that to me, because she knows what happens if she does, isn’t that right? So that’s ‘no,’ what?”

“No, sir,” you correct, watching him wide-eyed.

“Good girl,” he says, releasing your jaw and standing back up. He pulls his fingers out of your pussy, licking them clean absently while he pulls his shorts down with the other hand. You find that you’re trembling, the ache in your pussy a pleasant reminder of last night, though it’s eclipsed by an overwhelming feeling of need when you realize it’s going to happen again.

Johnny fishes a small packet of lube and a condom out of the pocket of his shorts before casting them aside. You give him a scandalized look.

“Were you planning this?” you ask. Somehow, you can’t quite make your tone accusatory.

He just grins lazily. “I wouldn’t say planning,” he replies as he tears the condom open and rolls it on. “More just potentially anticipating. Hands, please. I’m going to redo them behind your back. I like to be prepared,” he continues. “You never know.”

“Indeed.” You offer up your wrists and he makes quick work of the knot, tugging you free and then helping you to your feet. He spins you around, fastening the twisted t-shirt back around your wrists where he has them pinned behind you. He’s fucking ridiculous, you think, staring down at the marble of the counter. The cartoon Robin Hood “spare coochie” meme pops into your head, and you stifle a laugh, feeling giddy. Spare marriage, sir? You make a mental note to send it to your best friend later—she’ll definitely clown you for it, but it’s kind of how you feel.

You feel Johnny’s hand on your waist, coaxing you to bend over, and the head of his cock against the entrance to your pussy. “Ready, baby?”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, though it trails to a sigh when he pushes in.

It’s a little mind-numbing, though you’re of the opinion that good sex always should be. You rest your cheek on the cool marble, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your hips bump against the edge of the counter, but you can barely feel the pain, focused more on Johnny’s hands and Johnny’s cock, the way he fucks you open like he’s trying to take you apart.

“ God , you feel good,” he forces out, and you whine softly at the praise. “My little slut takes me so well.”

“Daddy,” you reply, a little slurred from your lightheadedness. You wonder vaguely if he’d be willing to fuck you elsewhere in his penthouse—maybe on the sofa, or the dining table, so that every time he has guests over, he’s forced to confront the memory of you, burning behind his eyes, your voice ringing in his ears. You have a feeling he wouldn’t be opposed. You have a feeling he’d find the idea of it just as hot as you do.

You don’t bring it up now, though; you wouldn’t, even if you could—which is beside the point anyway, because you’re too busy moaning at the way he feels inside you, cock dragging against the spot that makes your legs weak and your heart pound. Another thing you’re finding you love about Johnny is that he’s vocal—he groans softly with each thrust, whispering senseless praise every few strokes. It makes you sure he knows you’re here, and that it’s you that’s making him feel this way, that he’s not imagining someone else, or, probably worse, thinking of no one at all, not even you. You’re not against being objectified, but there’s a difference between feeling used and feeling useless. Johnny nails the former perfectly, and it’s enough to make you feel like you could sink all the way down the many, many stories beneath you, heavy with desire.

“I’m close, daddy,” you find yourself whimpering, and you don’t even really know how you got there. It’s the everything about it, you suppose—the way he holds your wrists behind you, securing you in place, the way he’s fucking you hard enough to leave bruises, the way he so clearly wants you, the way this is all happening in the middle of his insanely expensive and uncommonly gorgeous kitchen. “Touch me, please.”

Johnny does, letting go of your waist to snake his hand around front and massage over your clit with his index and middle fingers. “I’m close, too,” he tells you, breath hot on your back. “I dreamed about you last night, baby. Wanted you even in my sleep. What am I supposed to do with that, huh?”

“I think you—ah, fuck—I think you handled it just fine,” you reply through sharp inhales. You feel choked on your moans, even though there’s nothing blocking your airflow. In the back of your head, you wish there was, but it’s a bit too late for that now. “Lucky for you, I’m always on board.”

“Mm, good,” Johnny replies, voice low and strained. “We can make this a habit, if you want.”

You get an image of you, coming over to his place every week or so, only for him to fuck you into his mattress that night and then do it again in the morning. You shake, panting as you reply. “I’d like that,” you say, and he hums.

Your orgasm is fast approaching—your limbs feel like live wires, and the pressure in your pussy is building. You clench around Johnny’s cock without meaning to, but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. He settles for grinding against you, pressed so deep inside you wonder if you’ll be feeling it for the next month. His fingers are still circling your clit, fast and sweet, sparks of pleasure bursting across your skin with each movement.

You come with a cry, breath fogging the counter below your mouth. You hear Johnny moaning behind you as he fucks you shallowly through your orgasm, hips stuttering as he comes as well, hand never leaving your clit until you’re so overstimulated you have to push him away.

You both catch your breath for a second after he pulls out, and then you stand up gingerly, stretching your back as best you can. Johnny’s fingers find the t-shirt on your wrists, a little clumsy now in his post-orgasm haze. But nevertheless, you’re soon released, and you turn around so you can kiss him.

He smiles into the kiss, and then you’re both laughing, barefoot and (mostly) naked in his kitchen at eleven o’clock in the morning. It’s not the wildest thing you’ve ever done, even as a real adult, but there’s definitely something to be said for fucking twice in the span of less than twelve hours.

“You’re so much fun,” he says as his laughter subsides, grinning at you. “Finally, someone that matches my energy.”

“I think that’s just a nice way of saying, ‘why do you have the sex drive of a fifteen year old boy?’ but I’ll take it,” you reply, scooping your underwear up from the floor. “Good thing we cleaned up beforehand.”

“Yeah, I think… we may have broken something otherwise,” he agrees. “Okay.” He rolls the condom off and ties it before chucking it in the trash. “I have a few things to get done, but I can offer you a robe and a pair of shorts if you want them, and you can hang out by the pool while I finish up. Feel free to take a glass or two of wine, if you like. Or a bottle or two, I don’t mind. I’ll join you in an hour or so.”

“I don’t need the shorts,” you say, going over to the wine cooler and plucking up the least-expensive looking red you see. “Can I take this?” He nods, and you cradle it to your chest, following him out of the kitchen and back up the stairs. “If it’s alright with you. I’ll just skinny-dip. The robe would be nice, though.”

“You’re lucky we’re the tallest building in the area,” Johnny says. “I doubt anyone will see you, in any case.”

You shrug. “It’s not like they’d be able to make out my face anyway. I’ll be fine.”

He leads you into his bedroom, and disappears into his closet. You discard the t-shirt on his bed, and place your folded underwear on top of the stack of the rest of your clothes on the bookshelf.

“Here.” Johnny’s extending a fluffy black robe to you. “It’s a little cold out there, so I thought I’d go for function over style.”

“Thanks,” you say, giggling, and let him help you into it. You fasten the sash around your waist, following him out to the balcony.

“You can rinse off there,” he says, pointing at a shower stall in the back corner by the hot tub that you didn’t see the night before. “Hot tub controls are on the wall. There’s some wine glasses and a bottle opener in this cabinet here.” He opens one of the doors, and produces a silver wine opener. “I’ll be in my office, okay?”

“Okay.” You smile at him, accepting the wine opener. “Thank you.”

“No need.” He gives you a quick kiss on the cheek, and then heads back inside.

You head over to the lounge chairs that are on the side of the pool protected by the weather shelter, next to the outer wall. You put the bottle of wine on the ground, taking off your robe and draping it over a chair, and then take the bottle and the bottle opener to the hot tub. You put them on the side, and start the heat and jets in the tub, then hop into the shower really quick to rinse off the layer of sweat before making your swift way to the hot tub, shivering against the slight wind.

You sigh in appreciation as you sink under the warm water, reaching up to open your wine. You didn’t bother with a glass—you know you’re probably going to drink the whole thing, anyway. You sit like that, water just barely up to your chest, sipping the wine and surveying the city with half-lidded eyes.

Really, you don’t know how you got so lucky. Maybe I should half-stalk more hot guys for fun, you think to yourself, smiling. You never know. The next one could be the son of an oil tycoon, or a prince. If you can’t eat the rich, then… at least fuck them, right? And steal their wine.

By the time Johnny comes out onto the balcony, you’re about three-quarters of the way through the bottle of wine. Though the pancakes from this morning did something to buffer the effects of the alcohol at first, you definitely have a solid buzz going, and you giggle through your greeting smile when Johnny comes into view.

“Do you want some?” you ask, offering up the bottle. “Before I finish it?”

He grins, shaking his head. “No, I think I’ll need to drive you home, so I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Mmkay.” You tilt your head back, taking him in. He’s changed into a pair of swim shorts and nothing else, and though it’s not very sunny, he has sunglasses perched on the top of his head, blonde hair pushed back and falling over the frames. “Well, at least join me.”

“You don’t even have to ask.” He slips into the water beside you, moving close to kiss your cheekbone, the corner of your lips, your jaw.

“Work go okay?” you ask.

“Mm-hmm,” he says, resting his chin on your shoulder. His hair tickles your ear, and you laugh. “I’m all yours for the rest of the day.”

“Sounds perfect,” you reply, bringing your opposite hand around to cup his cheek. “Have anything in mind?”

“Well,” Johnny says, kissing your palm and peeling away to lean back against the tub. “I was thinking lunch would be in order sometime soon. Maybe we could nap, if you want. And then I’d drive you home before dinner. I don’t want to keep you too long; I know you have shit to do.”

It’s unfortunate, but he’s right. As much as you want to stay longer, you know you have to sober up and get home to finish at least part of your project. Besides, you don’t want to overstay your welcome. “Yeah,” you say. “I do have shit to do.”

“Make no mistake,” he adds quickly. “I wouldn’t mind if you stayed. I just don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“Well, thank you.” You take another swig of wine, rolling the liquid around in your mouth. “I appreciate it.”

“So,” he continues. “We soak here for a little while longer, and then we eat and take a siesta, how’s that sound?”

“You’re a dork,” you inform him, but you nod. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

You sit together for a few minutes as you finish your bottle of wine, chatting and laughing.

“So,” you say when your wine bottle is empty. “Do you let all the pretty girls use your hot tub and drink your alcohol?”

Johnny laughs. “No,” he says, giving you his blinding smile. “Only the ones that surveil me for months at the gym.”

You swat him, but play along. “Ah, so I’m the first?” you ask. “Surely no one else is as crazy.”

“You never know,” he replies, still grinning. “You’d be surprised.”

“You have another stalker?” you ask, feigning shock and offense.

“You’re not a stalker,” he points out. “And no. You’re just not the first person to approach me at the gym.”

“I did no approaching. That was like, the main problem,” you say, and he laughs again.

“This is all to say, yes, I have had other girls over before, but not recently, and they usually left in the morning.” He spreads his hands. “So consider yourself special.”

“It’s considered.” He snorts and shoves you lightly, and you shove him back. He grabs your arm to stop you from doing it again, and somehow you end up nose to nose, wrestling in the water. You jut your chin forward so you can kiss him, but even kissing, you’re still grappling with each other. You break apart to giggle. Johnny’s sunglasses are askew on his head.

“All right,” he says once your mini fight has died down. He pushes himself out of the tub, getting to his feet. You watch, unabashed, as beads of water trickle down his perfect torso. “Let’s go see about some lunch.”

He offers you a hand, scooping up the empty wine bottle with the other, and you stand, now oddly self-conscious. It’s certainly not like he hasn’t seen you naked before—and quite recently, too—but still, you duck your head and hope Johnny isn’t looking too close.

The problem is, you’re a little drunk, and focusing super hard on how you look means you’re not focused on walking. You manage to trip over your own feet, and if Johnny wasn’t there to catch you, you’d probably have gone sprawling out across the concrete. Though the danger of you falling has passed, neither of you loosen your grip on the other’s arm.

“Sorry,” you say, hushed.

“Can’t blame you,” Johnny replies. “You’re a little drunk, aren’t you?”

You shrug one shoulder, giving him a coy look. “Maybe more than a little.”

He shakes his head and guides you backwards into a lounge chair. “D’you think lunch could wait just a few minutes?” He doesn’t really wait for an answer, though; he’s already covered your body with his, lips on your neck.

“What, was my clumsiness so enticing?” you ask, grinning. “You like it when girls trip themselves and almost fall to their deaths?”

“No, I like seeing you naked in my hot tub, drunk off my wine, swaying on my balcony,” he says, and that shuts you right up. “You know what I thought when I first walked out here and saw you? Giggling, beautiful tits—“ he squeezes one in his hand as if to punctuate his point, and you gasp. “—just barely visible, eyes not quite focused?”

“No, what?” you say, barely hearing your own words.

He looks up. “God, she’s beautiful,” he says, and smirks when you roll your eyes at him. “I thought we talked about rolling your eyes.”

“Okay, Christian Grey,” you say, and he smacks your thigh.

“I’m serious, any more attitude and I’ll be beating your ass black and blue, not eating you out.” His eyes are still dancing with laughter but his tone is firm. You quiet down, nodding. “That’s better.” He scoots down the lounge chair, spreading your legs and throwing one of them over his shoulder. By the time you’ve processed this change in position, he has his mouth on you. He sucks lightly on your clit, teeth barely grazing it, and you shudder involuntarily.

You watch the muscles in his back ripple as he bends deeper, and almost reach out to touch, but remember the rules. “Can I touch you, sir?” you ask, making your voice meek and small.

“Yes, baby,” he pulls away briefly to murmur.

You run a hand down his back, tracing lines up and down his spine, plucking his sunglasses off the crown of his head so they don’t get in the way, and holding his hair out of his eyes with your other hand. He hums his thanks around your clit, and the vibration makes you moan.

You’re a horny drunk as it is—an affliction that gets the better of you all the time—but something about the way Johnny was talking about it, how he liked that you were at his place, unsteady in your drunk-ness, how that turned him on... it just makes it worse. You’re so wet and so needy, and he’s barely done anything to you. Maybe it’s that he feels safe, even like this, or maybe it’s just that you like to be incapacitated and completely at the mercy of your partner, but all of it is making your head spin. Or maybe it’s just the pleasure mixing with the alcohol.

You’re glad he has a strong hand braced against your thigh, otherwise you’d be at risk of crushing his skull between your legs. Or maybe you’re just at risk of melting into a puddle of desire right here and now. Your limbs feel heavy, and all you can do is moan, Johnny’s tongue quickly pushing you close to the edge.

You can’t even warn him before you come, shaking your way through it, curled forward and praying you’re not suffocating him. He presses kisses to your clit, your pussy, movements almost lazy while you slowly come down from it, gasping in breaths.

As soon as you can speak again, you push him to his feet. “Okay, now you,” you demand.

He smiles, stepping around your legs. “Put your feet up on the chair and tilt your head back.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, keeping eye contact. You cross one ankle over the other, dropping your head back onto the headrest, and stretching your mouth open. You stick your tongue out and raise your eyebrows a little at him.

“What a good girl.” He presses his thumb into your mouth; you let him bully a few fingers against the back of your throat. “You’re so—pliant, I think is the word I’m looking for. You always get like this when you drink?”

“Not always,” you answer around his fingers. “Depends on who I’m with. With you, probably yes.”

Satisfaction settles across his face. “Maybe we can test that out sometime,” he says, nonchalant, withdrawing his fingers. “Okay, want my cock?”

“Yes, daddy,” you reply.

He tugs down his shorts, just low enough that you have access, and shuffles forward a few more steps until the head is ghosting against the tip of your tongue. You hold very still, though all you want to do is stretch your tongue out and lick the precome beading at the tip. Gradually, he pushes his cock into your mouth until it’s all you can do not to gag. You hollow your cheeks as best you can, breathing harshly through your nose.

Johnny strokes your jaw with his thumb. “Good girl,” he repeats. “Gonna let me use your poor throat? Gonna let me fuck your face til I come?” You nod, trying to make little mm-hm noises around his cock. He gets the message. “Thank you, baby,” he all but coos, one hand going to grip your hair, tight and close to your scalp. You try to open your jaw a little wider. A tear leaks out of the corner of your eye, followed by another, and another, as Johnny pulls out fluidly and then shoves his cock right back down your throat.

You can’t help it after a minute or two—you’re gagging and your spit is thick and glistening on his cock when he slides it out of your mouth. It’s okay, though; you’re not really at risk of throwing up, You are still crying, though, more just a natural reaction from your body getting abused than anything else. Johnny doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t acknowledge it. He yanks your head forward and you let your torso loll over the seat, closing your eyes.

“God,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “I tell you you’re good, and you’ll just let me do anything, huh?”

“Mm-hm,” you say, too drunk and too preoccupied to argue.

“Fuck,” he hisses out, and you moan around his cock. You feel like you’re floating in honey; though Johnny’s thrusts are sharp and fast, they feel slow, the wine numbing you to any pain. You know you’re messy—spit is dripping down your chin and mixing with your tears—but you can’t be bothered with it. Besides, Johnny thinks it’s hot, and that’s all that really matters.

Abruptly, he pulls out, leaving you heaving for breath. He keeps the one hand on your hair, so your face is tilted up towards him. He jacks himself off, groaning when he finally comes. You squeeze your eyes tight—come stings if you get it in your eyes, you know—and moan quietly when you feel it hit your brow bone, your cheek, your tongue.

Johnny cleans you off a bit with his fingers and you swipe at your face a little before looking up at him. He’s tucked himself back into his pants, and he’s flushed but smiling.

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Now lunch.”

You laugh, taking his hand and getting to your feet. You sway, but it’s okay, because Johnny catches you.

* * *

After lunch, you both shower and curl up in Johnny’s bed for a much-needed nap. You fall asleep tucked closed to his chest and your nose full of the scent of his cologne.

You wake late to a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey.” You blink your eyes open and see Johnny sitting up beside you. “I’m not trying to kick you out, please take your time. I just figured you’d wanna be getting home.”

You squint at the clock; it’s a little before three. “Yeah,” you whisper back. “I do. Thank you.”

He smiles and stands, going to raise the blinds. You follow him, grabbing your clothes and pulling them on, adjusting your dress as the shades click in place at the top of the windows.

“Got everything?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, retrieving your phone from the bedside table. You’re still a little unsteady, but sobering by the minute, so you’re pretty sure you’re telling the truth.

“Well,” he says as he follows you down the stairs. “If you do happen to leave something behind, you have my number.”

“Yes.” You smile at him as you shrug your coat on, checking your pockets for your wallet and your keys.

You both pull on your shoes and head out into the hall, then back into the fancy elevator. You’re silent as you ride all the way down to the garage.

Johnny opens the passenger side door for you and shuts it once you’re settled. There’s almost a melancholy stillness in the car—the air seems a little tense. You watch your hands in your lap, not sure how to broach the subject. Will we see each other again?

Once you get into the city, you direct Johnny towards your building. It might not be wise to give him your address, but then again, he hasn’t done anything to give you pause, so you decide not to worry about it.

A few missed turns later, he pulls up along the curb, and turns his car off. There’s a beat of silence as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride,” you say softly. He nods. You open your door and stick your right leg out, and then turn back to him. “Will I see you again?”

“If you want,” Johnny says with a wide smile. He leans toward you and you take the opportunity to give him a goodbye kiss. “Text me anytime, baby,” he murmurs when you pull away, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

“Will do.” You get out of the car and shut the door, then bend down so you can wave goodbye through the window.

Johnny waves back, putting his car in drive. Right before he pulls away, he makes eye contact with you and gives you that same fucking wink.