“Panties,” he repeated, not in a question this time.
“Yes, those are, uh . . . my panties,” I confirmed.
This got me the bright, white, beautiful smile. “Babe, why’d you put on your panties?”
I blinked up at him.
His fingers slid inside the waistband to lightly cup one cheek of my behind.
My lips parted.
“Sweet, shy Eliza,” he muttered like he was referencing me to someone else even if he was gazing right into my eyes. “Gonna have to break you of that.”
Yes.
Oh God, please let it be yes.
This was the beginning of something.
“You hungry?” he asked conversationally.
I nodded, not really knowing if I was or I wasn’t. Mostly knowing I liked the warmth and possessiveness of his hand down my pants.
“Wanna fuck before or after I feed you?” he inquired.
My legs wobbled.
He felt it, I knew because that got me another smile, this one less sweet and oh-so-much-more sexy.
“Both,” he whispered, his head coming toward mine. “Starting with before.”
“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.