Page 131 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns

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I nod, dazed. Ruined.

“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing my cheek. “My good, dirty girl.”

I let the words sink in.

Because I think—I know—I’ll replay them over and over later when I’m lying in his bed, sore and full and a little too aware of the way I’m already spiraling.

Because something about this feels dangerous.

Addictive.

And way too close to something real.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Lucian

Addendum Nine: We’re Fucked

She’s still wrapped around me: breath hot against my neck, nails trailing lightly down my back like she’s trying to hold onto something she’s already afraid she lost.

I should tell her she hasn’t.

That she won’t.

That I’m not going anywhere.

If she needs it, I’ll stay forever.

But that’s delusional, right? That’s endorphins, sex haze, and too many days of pretending this isn’t real—when it clearly fucking is.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

I don’t want to.

Her chest rises and falls against mine, uneven and slow like she’s riding the comedown from something that hit harder than either of us expected. And maybe it shouldn’t have felt like this. Maybe a hallway fuck shouldn’t have unraveled me.

But here we are.

I press a kiss to her temple—just a soft brush of lips, instinct more than thought—and feel her go completely still.

Then a shaky breath.

Then her voice, barely a whisper.

“I think I forgot how to walk.”

I huff a laugh, still buried inside her, not even pretending to be functional. “That’s okay. I can carry you.”

“No, no,” she mutters. “We’re not doing that. You don’t get to go full romantic hero right after rearranging my pelvic floor with that big cock.”

“You say that,” I murmur, “but your legs are still wrapped around me like you’re auditioning for koala mating season.”

She groans but doesn’t move.

Doesn’t let go.

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