Page 108 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I hold her there, one hand tangled in her hair and the other curled around her hip. I don’t want her to move. Not yet. Not until I’ve memorized her shape like this—flushed cheeks, damp strands sticking to her temples, lips kiss-bruised and swollen as if she’s been whispering sins into my mouth.
When she finally pulls back, her nose brushes against mine. Her eyes open slowly, revealing a tiny crease between her brows like she’s already overthinking it. Already searching for something to say that won’t mean anything because she’s scared that if it does, it might start to mean everything.
I know the look. I wear it every time I look at her.
She exhales through her nose and clears her throat. “So, uh . . . that was a very thorough onboarding process. There’s certainly much we need to discuss, but it’s a solid start.”
God, her voice is hoarse. I can still hear the way she moaned my name. Now she’s trying to pull a Becky Fuller, all bright-eyed and awkward, using it like its armor.
I run my thumb along her jaw. “Didn’t want HR coming after me for failing to cover the benefits package properly.”
She snorts. It’s adorable. “Right. Because you’re so big on protocols.”
I lift a brow. “Hey, I’m very compliant. Especially when you wear Tuesday panties on a Monday.”
Her face scrunches up like she wants to laugh and hide under the covers simultaneously. “Can we please not talk about the panties?”
“No promises,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her mouth. “They’re basically my Roman Empire now.”
Her laugh bursts like she wasn’t ready for it, and something in my chest pulls tight. She’s still on top of me, her skin pressed against mine, yet I can sense her attempting to pull away—emotionally, mentally, behind that fast-talking, never-stand-still charm.
She shifts, glancing down at the mess between us. “Okay, um, do you have a towel or a mop or—paper towels?”
“I think I’ve got a sock that’ll do the trick.”
“Lucian,” she gasps, smacking my chest.
I grin, but the moment stills just enough for something real to slip in. She starts to sit up, and I catch her wrist—not hard, not urgent. Just enough.
She pauses, eyes meeting mine.
“You okay?” I ask, low.
That tiny crease comes back. She nods, quickly. Too quickly and I’m not sure if I like it.
“Yeah. Totally. I mean, this is what we signed up for, right?” she states or asks, I’m not sure.
Right.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. I feel it—the slight internal shift, the subtle sting of her brushing it off like it’s just a checkbox. Like this didn’t mean something. Like she didn’t just wreck me in the best damn way possible.
I let go of her wrist. She slips off me and reaches for her shirt, slipping it over her head in one smooth motion. Her movements are casual, maybe even a little clumsy—her fingers catching on the collar, her hair trapped inside it until she pulls it free. She looks like a woman trying very hard to stay composed, but her cheeks are still flushed, and she won’t quite meet my eyes.
She stands, adjusting the hem of the shirt that now clings to her in places, her chest still faintly streaked with what I gave her. She wipes at it with the edge of the fabric and sighs. “Well . . . that’s gonna leave a weird laundry moment.”
I sit up slowly, resting my forearms on my knees. Watching her.
“Olivia.”
She looks at me—finally.
I don’t say it. I almost do. The truth of it—it’s there, heavy on my tongue. This wasn’t just a release. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone like this afterward. I've never wanted to pull them into me and hold them close, just to make sure they were still there.
But I’ve always been better with action than words.
So, I stand. Cross to her. And when she goes to say something else—probably another joke to lighten the air—I kiss her again.
This one’s different.
