Page 110 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
My heart is doing that thing again. You know, where it forgets the basic rhythm it’s had my entire life and instead opts for full jazz solos. Every nerve ending is still lit up as if Lucian’s touch rewired me. My skin’s flushed, my thighs are sticky, and his scent—clean sweat, want, and whatever sinful thing he whispered about dreaming of—is stamped all over me like a custom fucking signature.
I should turn on the water.
That’s what normal people do after a near-orgasmic, mind-melting, contract-sealing sex scene. They shower. They rinse off their regrets. They pretend they didn’t moan someone’s name like it was a damn mantra.
Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror.
My lips are swollen. My neck looks like it had a passionate disagreement with someone who uses his mouth like a weapon of mass seduction. My shirt? Streaked with proof of exactly what I did to my outrageously hot, maddeningly smug, contract-wielding neighbor.
I mean, I didn’t even let him inside me—and he still came undone like that.
Which . . . wow.
That happened. I’ve never seen a guy coming like that on me. It’s really my first and I wouldn’t mind if it’s not my last. It was so hot.
So much for not going full sex, if that wasn’t full sex, I don’t know if I’m ready for what full sex is going to look like with him. Maybe I am. Maybe I want him to throw me on the kitchen counter, tear off my shirt, and finally let me wrap around him until I’m shaking. Until all that cum is filling me.
God, I want to ride him.
Hard. Slow. Until I’m panting into his neck and he forgets every single rule he wrote in that ridiculous, borderline romantic sex contract.
I lean over the sink, palms pressed to the porcelain as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My hair falls forward, frizzed and wild, still carrying the scent of sex and peanut sauce.
I don’t even care that I’m going to look like a poodle tomorrow.
I just need one second.
One second to breathe. To regroup. To remind myself that this isn’t real. We’re doing this responsibly. With rules. With boundaries. With a signed document, like mature adults who definitely aren’t developing feelings or imagining what it’d be like to wake up beside each other for real.
Nope.
Definitely not doing that.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn the water on—because at this point, it’s either rinse off the lust or march back out there and let him destroy me again. Thoroughly. Repeatedly.
And honestly?
The jury’s still deliberating.
I stare at the tile wall, then glance at my phone where I’ve already typed “Is it considered bad form to catch feelings after the benefits package is activated?”
My thumb hovers over send.
Don’t do it, Olivia. Do not text Aspen.
She’ll go full therapist-meets-Disney-princess mode and say something profoundly sweet-slash-unhelpful like, “Feelings aren’t bad, Liv. They’re just little truths trying to wear shoes.” Or worse, she’ll sic Bruno on me—her terrifyingly intense soulmate who looks like he bench-presses feelings for fun and somehow still manages to treat her like she invented sunlight.
They don’t even believe in marriage, claiming it’s a contract designed to protect real estate rather than love. “Love doesn’t need paperwork,” Aspen once stated while sipping matcha and braiding her hair like a woodland creature.
And here I am, fully wrapped in a towel of regret and a contract of convenience. Yet it doesn’t feel like a waste.
Not even close.
If anything, it feels like I just signed up for something real—like the fine print said “You will feel things, idiot,” and I skimmed it like a rookie on two hours of sleep and half a granola bar.
I turn on the shower, watching as the water thunders to life and steam curls up like it knows secrets I haven’t yet admitted. Like it’s trying to tell me, This isn’t just about sex, and you damn well know it.
“The steam is a liar,” I mutter, tugging my hair into a sad little bun and stepping under the spray. “This is proximity. Hormones. Biology.”
