Page 111 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
And the fact that he resembles a goddamn football-playing Greek demigod who says ‘good girl’ as if it were sacred text.
That’s it. Simple biology. A little oral worship. Some minor contract violations pending review.
Still . . . I can feel him.
His mouth rested between my thighs. The sound of his voice—low, rough, and possessive—when he claimed it was his. The way he held me like he wanted to memorize the shape of me from the inside out.
My legs wobble at the memory.
Get.
It.
Together.
I scrub shampoo into my hair like it has wronged me personally, rinse away the heat, and try to ignore the fact thatI’m flushing in places I’m not even touching. When I step out of the shower, I don’t feel cleansed—I feel exposed. Like steam isn’t enough to wash away the emotional residue of Lucian Crawford at full volume.
Five minutes later, I’m wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, and mentally preparing to re-enter the scene of the crime. More like hoping he’s asleep so I can just head to my temporary bedroom.
If not, he might think I’ve drowned.
Or ran away through the bathroom window—I glance over but see it might be impossible since it’s too high, and I don’t even know if it can open.
He could think I passed out curled around a bar of lavender soap and a full-blown identity crisis.
But he’d be wrong. I’m still here.
Still spiraling.
Still way too into the man I’m supposed to be casually sleeping with.
I crack the door and peek out.
And nearly scream.
He stands effortlessly, as if gravity doesn’t affect him, as if he isn't burdened by the same pile of emotions I’m struggling to contain. He steps closer—slow, deliberate—brushing my damp hair from my shoulder, his fingers grazing the curve of my neck. I freeze.
Everything stills except my heart, which now performs Olympic-level gymnastics behind my ribs.
“Are you okay?”
I’m speechless because what can I respond? No, I’m . . . not sure how I am. “Tired. Yeah, I’m exhausted.”
“Then I’d probably have to make you tea,” he murmurs. “Or let you steal one of my shirts. Or offer Sarah’s emotional support services. She’s certified in guilt trips and cuddle therapy.”
Oh God, he’s being nice.
My towel suddenly feels very insufficient. My brain, too.
I should say something witty. Deflect. Pretend this isn’t happening. Or suggest the world’s worst idea, like crawling into his bed because it’s bigger, warmer, and would definitely ruin me.
“I’m not emotionally spiraling,” I say.
Lucian’s brow lifts in clear disbelief.
“Fine,” I amend, “I’m not not emotionally spiraling.”
His smirk returns, just enough to make me feel like I’m teetering on a ledge built out of heat and hormones.
