Page 101 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Because in this moment, the only thing I feel is him.
And, fuck, it feels good to fall.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lucian
Orientation in a Few Easy Steps
There’s a sound a woman makes when she wants to be ruined.
It’s not a moan—at least not right away.
It’s more subtle.
A breath. A pause. A throaty stutter in her chest. That’s the sound Olivia makes as I drag her into the bedroom.
Her mouth is kiss-swollen, her hair barely held up, and that T-shirt—barely hangs off her like it’s been punished for clinging too well to her hips. I should let her catch her breath. I should pretend that our little contract means nothing when she looks at me like she’s daring me to come claim what we both already know I want.
But we’re past pretending now.
I lean in the doorway for a second longer, letting my gaze drag down her legs—those long, golden legs that always cross when she’s pretending she’s not paying attention to me. Now? She’s not crossing anything. She’s standing at the edge of the bed like she’s wondering what’s going to happen next.
So, I show her.
I reach behind me, twist the doorknob, and close the door with a soft click.
“Sarah’s in the hallway,” I murmur, locking it. “This is adult time.”
Olivia lifts her brows. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I didn’t think ‘time for me to peel you out of that shirt and lick you until you forget your name’ fit on the schedule.”
She swallows. Hard.
Good.
I move toward her, slowly. “Do you know what happens when you sign a benefits contract with a man who’s been thinking about getting you naked since the second you moved in next door?”
She steps back, one foot behind the other, until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. “I assume there’s a full orientation?”
“Oh, there is,” I say as I reach for the hem of her shirt.
She doesn’t stop me.
Instead, she lifts her arms.
And I don’t rip it off her—I drag it. Slow. Inch by inch. Over her hips, up her rib cage, until her breasts fall free and I stop breathing.
No bra.
Of course.
The shirt hits the floor, and she’s standing in nothing but light purple panties with a waistband that says “Tuesday.”
“It’s Monday,” I murmur, voice low. “You’re either behind or ahead.”
“I just grab what’s available,” she says, cheeks flushed, nipples peaked.
