Page 124 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I don’t knock.
Don’t text.
Don’t pause.
I walk in like I own the place—because technically, I do. Just not the mortgage on my emotional stability.
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, it hits. The scent—something citrusy and pan-seared, browned just enough to make my stomach growl—and her.
Always her.
She’s at the stove in leggings and a tank top, flipping salmon like she didn’t just spend the last two hours sexting me into a brain-dead stupor. Like she’s not the living, breathing fantasy that’s been camped out in my head since the second we kissed.
“Smells great,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. My voice lowers, deep and unabashed. “But I’m craving something more.”
She doesn’t turn around. “Oh, you’re here. Don’t burn yourself. Or the food.”
“You offering to blow on it?” I ask, grinning as I move in behind her.
She snorts. “Did you walk in here feeling horny and bursting with metaphors?”
“Nope,” I murmur, sliding my hands over her hips. “Just hungry and a little dangerous.”
She stiffens—barely. Just a heartbeat of hesitation before she melts back into me, her hips pressing against mine in the softest, most damning way.
She’s been waiting.
She’s pretending she hasn’t, but I can feel it in the way her breath catches. In the way her body curves into mine as if it never learned to do anything else.
This?
This isn’t casual.
This is inevitability dressed in yoga pants and sarcasm.
And fuck I might be all in. That’s not good, is it?
I trail my fingers under her shirt, up the smooth plane of her stomach, while my mouth finds the crook of her neck. She shivers.
“You missed me,” I whisper.
“No comment,” she replies, which I’m beginning to think is Olivia-speak for ‘please ruin me.’
My hand slides up to cup her breast while I nudge her hair aside with my nose. I drag my teeth along her shoulder andkiss the spot I know makes her knees tremble. She lets out this breathy noise—half defiant, half desperate.
“You gonna let the salmon burn?” I ask, grinning against her skin.
She opens her mouth to respond, but I’m already reaching over and flipping off the burner.
“Dinner’s canceled,” I murmur. “Kitchen’s closed. Chef’s busy with… dessert prep.”
I spin her gently, grip her hips, and lift her onto the counter. Her back meets the cool marble, and her legs part just enough to let me step in close. She’s already flushed—eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising with anticipation.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous like this. Breathless and hungry. And all mine.
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me to stop,” I say, brushing my knuckles over her ribs as I lean in.
She grabs a fistful of my shirt, yanking me closer. “You’ve got five seconds to prove that mouth isn’t just for talking.”
