Page 103 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Right before she says yes— there’s a moment where I swear the entire world stops.
Not in the dramatic, end-of-times way. Not even like the big plays where the crowd goes silent just before the ball hits the receiver’s hands. It’s quieter than that. Subtler.
It’s the sound of her breath hitching when I murmur, “Tell me what you want.
The pause in her pulse.
The flick of her eyes, dark and uncertain, scanning mine like she’s trying to decide whether this is still banter or if she’s already halfway in.
Spoiler: she’s totally in.
So am I.
The air between us is so tight it hums. I haven’t touched her yet—truly touched her—and already she’s flushed, her breathing uneven, legs shifting as if she doesn’t know what to do with the desire building in her thighs.
“I want to see if you can make good on all that mouth of yours,” she whispers, chin tilted up like she’s daring me to come closer.
God, I love her mouth. That attitude. That shirt—that barely qualifies as clothing.
“You sure?” I ask, stepping in so close the hem of her oversized sleep shirt brushes my knuckles. “Because once I start, I’m not stopping until you’ve forgotten every other man you’ve ever been with.”
She lets out this shaky laugh. “Ah, the cockiness.”
I lean in, my voice a murmur against her throat. “Sweetheart, I’ve been hard for a week thinking about what I’d do to you. You think I’m gonna waste a single second?”
Her hands press flat against my bare chest, fingers flexing like she’s caught somewhere between pushing me away and pulling me closer. I give her one last chance—a heartbeat of stillness.
“You want me to stop?” I ask.
Olivia doesn’t speak at first.
She simply gazes at me—lips parted, eyes heavy, chest rising and falling with small, stuttering breaths that tell me everything I need to know.
Then her fingers curl against my skin, and she gives the slightest shake of her head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
My mouth curves into a slow, filthy grin. “That’s my girl.”
I don’t waste another second.
I drop to my knees again, palms skimming up her thighs to spread her open for me. She’s already so wet I can smell her—sweet, slick, needy—my mouth waters.
“You’ve been like this all night?” I murmur, brushing my lips just above her clit. “Soaking through your cute little Tuesday panties while you pretended we were just roommates?”
She lets out this broken little sound—half gasp, half whimper—and rocks her hips toward my face. Hungry.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “You waited for me.”
And then I give her what she’s been begging for since the second I closed that door.
I lick her slowly, starting with one long, teasing stroke from her entrance up to her clit. She jerks like I shocked her, a soft cry tumbling from her lips. I don’t stop. I do it again, slower this time, flattening my tongue and dragging it through her folds, savoring the way she trembles under my mouth.
Then I settle in, one hand gripping her thigh, the other splayed across her belly to hold her down. She’s already squirming, already panting.
“Stay still,” I growl. “Let me eat this perfect little pussy like I’ve been dreaming about for days.”
Her fingers tangle in my hair. She’s so close already. I can feel it in the way her hips try to chase my mouth, in the frantic way she’s whispering my name.
So, I double down.
