Poppy
He wanted us to pace ourselves. Didn’t want to rush, even though I knew.
But that didn’t mean we couldn’t text.
And that’s exactly what we did. For the rest of the weekend, we kept up with each other—how are you’s first thing in the morning, what are you up to, silly little mundane updates.
I got wrapped up in it. I felt like I was flying.
Like my life was a love story and this was all tumbling toward this beautiful, perfect moment—
When he would take me to bed.
I wanted it so badly I could barely sleep.
I needed to sleep Sunday night—had to be in the office at nine on Monday—but I couldn’t. I lay in bed tossing and turning, knowing I would be sleeping perfectly well in Johnny’s apartment, also aware he was insistent we take our time.
I rolled over and grabbed my phone, pulling up our text thread.
POPPY
You up?
It was late. It was stupid. I shouldn’t have texted him, I was going to seem desperate.
My phone rang.
I frowned down at it…saw Johnny’s contact.
Answered immediately and rolled back onto my back.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” His deep voice made my chest tighten, made me bite my lip.
“What are up to?” I asked.
“Just taking a look at my schedule for the week.” I heard him move on the other end of the line, maybe putting down a glass. “Wondering when I get to see this girl again.”
My heart did something completely embarrassing.
"This girl has work tomorrow," I said. "Nine o'clock."
"Mm." A pause. "Tuesday?"
"I could do Tuesday."
"Tuesday," he said, like he was writing it down somewhere. Maybe he was. "What time are you done?"
"Five, usually. Sometimes six if Sophie has evening consults."
"I'll pick you up at seven," he said. "Wherever you want to go."
"Okay." I was smiling at my ceiling like an idiot. "Where are you taking me?"
"Haven't decided yet." Another pause, and I heard the particular quiet of his apartment—the same quiet I'd been in two nights ago, that small warm space that smelled like garlic and old wood and something that was just him. "What are you doing right now?"
"Lying in bed," I said. "Can't sleep."
A beat.
"Why not?"
The question landed differently than it should have. Low and even, his voice in the dark, and I was already in bed and it was late and there was nobody else in the apartment—Stevie had a night shift.
"Thinking," I said.
"About what?"
I stared at the ceiling.
"You," I said. "Mostly."
The silence that followed had a different quality than the ones before it.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Yeah."
Another, longer pause.
"Tell me," he said.
“I’m thinking…” I swallowed, let my hand wander over my thigh. I was wearing these stupid little shorts with unicorns on them. I wondered if I should lie. “I’m thinking about how silly these PJ shorts I’m wearing are.”
“I’m sure they’re perfect.”
“You have an awful lot of confidence in me.”
“Not confidence.” He paused. I heard him sip his drink, put the glass down again. I could practically taste the whiskey on his lips. “I’ve just seen your ass in a pair of leggings.”
I cackled, which was also embarrassing—tried to cover it up. “Oh my god, Johnny…”
“Sorry,” he laughed too. “I should be polite.”
“You don’t have to be polite,” I said, then my breath caught when I remembered his words the other night. “I like you bad.”
A low sound on the other end of the line. Not quite a laugh.
"Is that so," he said.
"Mm." I let my hand wander a little further, just my fingertips, barely anything. "I've been thinking about that. What you said the other day."
"Which part?”
"The part where you said you wanted to take me apart piece by piece." I said it quietly, like the dark made it easier. It did. "I keep thinking about that."
Silence.
"Poppy." His voice had dropped into something lower, something that made my toes curl.
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing right now?”
"Nothing," I said. "Just—lying here. Thinking."
"Thinking." A pause. "Are your hands where they should be?"
My breath caught. "That depends on where you think they should be."
His voice seemed like it dropped a whole octave. “Put me on speaker phone, Poppy.”
I let out a long exhale, then I pulled the phone away from my ear and put him on speaker. I placed the phone next to my head, then—one hand on my belly, the other on my thigh.
“You’re on speaker,” I said.
“Good.” He paused. “I was just…thinking about where I want your hands. One between your legs. One on your breast.”
I moved my hands where he told me to…sliding my hands beneath my clothes to cup my pussy and squeeze my own breast.
“Okay,” I breathed.
“Good girl.”
There it was—the same words from the dream, in his actual voice, at midnight on a Sunday with my phone on the pillow next to my head and my heartbeat going absolutely haywire.
“Tell me what you feel,” he said.
“I feel–” I exhaled. “I feel like I’ve been having this dream for two years.”
“This isn’t a dream,” he said with a low laugh. “But I meant—with your hands, baby. Not with your head.”
I took a sharp breath as I moved my hands, letting myself actually feel without thinking. “My…I’m pinching my nipple,” I gasped. “It hurts a little but it feels good. And…and my–my pussy is wet.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I was hoping.”
“Johnny.”
“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."
"I want—" I hesitated.
"Say it," he said. "Whatever it is."
"I want you inside me," I said. "I want to feel you."
When he spoke his voice was lower than it had been all night.
"You will," he said. "I promise you that." A pause. "Now put it in, baby. Slow."
I did, and the sound I made went straight through the phone because I heard his breath change on the other end—just slightly, just enough.
"Okay?" he said.
"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, okay—"
"Move it," he said. "Slow. Don't rush."
I started fucking myself with the vibe…rocking my hips, imagining it was him. I could hear him breathing on speaker phone, this other sound…
“My hand’s on my cock right now, Poppy,” he said. “Fuck…fuck, your pussy is gonna feel so much better…”
“I wish it was you,” I whined.
"I know," he said. "Soon."
"Tuesday," I breathed.
"Tuesday." A pause, and I heard his breath hitch slightly. "Keep moving. Don't stop."
I rocked my hips and pressed my head back into the pillow and tried to hold onto the sound of him—his breathing, the rough edge that had crept into his voice, the way he said my name when he was trying to stay in control and losing ground on it.
"Talk to me," I said. "Keep talking."
"I'm thinking about you," he said. "Lying there. What you look like right now."
"Tell me."
"Red hair all over that pillow," he said. "Those stupid shorts." A breath. "Thinking about pulling them off you Tuesday. Taking my time."
"Johnny—"
"Thinking about your mouth," he said. "About putting my hands in your hair and feeding you my cock." His voice dropped lower. "About how good you're going to feel when I’m finally inside you."
I whimpered.
"Are you close?" he said.
"Yes—"
"How close?"
"Really close, please—"
"Yeah." Rough now, barely controlled. "Me too, baby." A pause. "Come for me. Right now. Come on."
I came hard, my whole body arching, biting down on my lip to muffle the sound—and I heard him follow me over the edge on the other end of the line, a low rough sound that I was going to be thinking about for the rest of my life.
Silence.
Then just our breathing, settling.
I smiled at the ceiling. "I'm going to sleep really well now."
A low laugh. "Good." A pause. "That was the point."
"Was it."
"Mm…partly.”
I laughed softly and pulled my blanket up, suddenly warm and loose and completely at ease in a way I hadn't been in days.
"Tuesday," I said.
"Tuesday," he said. "Go to sleep, Poppy."
"Okay."
I very reluctantly hung up…even though I could have laid there all night just listening to him breathe on the phone.
My phone buzzed once more.
I looked at the screen.
JOHNNY
Tuesday—bring your toys.
I thought about it for a second…finally decided to take the leap.
POPPY
Yes sir.
JOHNNY
Good girl.