Page 109 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
It’s not a claiming. It’s not control.
It’s soft. Messy. Full of everything I don’t say.
Her breath catches. Her fingers curl into my sides. At first, she kisses me back with hesitation, but then, all at once, she kisses me with abandon.
When I pull back, her eyes stay closed a second too long.
I run a hand through her hair and murmur, “You wanna shower? Or should I grab you a commemorative sock?”
She huffs out a laugh, eyes fluttering open like she’s halfway between bliss and disbelief. “Shower. And don’t follow me in.”
I force a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Even though I absolutely fucking would.
Not in a creepy way. Not even in a way typical of a horny football guy.
Just in a ‘please let me be near you five seconds longer,’ kind of way.
But she’s already turning, heading toward the bathroom as if she hasn’t completely blown my mind and short-circuited half my moral code.
I stare at the spot where she stood just moments ago. It’s still warm, still carrying the scent of vanilla, of sex, and that lavender shampoo she pretends she buys for Sarah.
My hands drop to my sides, useless now.
God, I wanted more. I wanted her pressed against the tile, water trickling down her back while she moaned my name again. I wanted to kiss her under the spray and make her forget whatever overthinking spiral she’s probably spinning into right now.
But instead, I let her go.
Because she asked.
Because whatever this is between us, it’s real enough that I’m not about to ruin it by pushing. She deserves someone who listens when she says no, even when his body is screaming fuck yes.
So, I fall back on the only armor I’ve ever had—humor and cocky deflection.
“Not until round two of your training module is scheduled,” I add, deadpan.
She pauses in the doorway just long enough to roll her eyes.
And smile.
That little smile—the one she doesn’t even know she gives me—sticks with me long after the bathroom door closes and the water starts running.
And me?
I stand in the middle of my room, still naked, definitely half-wrecked, and already wondering how I’m supposed to survive the next few hours without touching her again.
Craving it.
Craving her.
Chapter Thirty-One
Olivia
Emotional Spiraling Might Be Inevitable
The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind me, I press my back to it and inhale as I’ve just run a mile barefoot uphill—carrying an eighty-pound dog that’s almost as tall as me and a suitcase full of bad decisions.
