Page 134 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Not until we’re both back in the kitchen, her fingers twisting the hem of the shirt, her hair towel-wrapped and dripping down her back.
“So,” I say, grabbing a dish towel and tossing it on the counter. “Wanna order takeout?”
She blinks at me. “What about the salmon?”
I peer at the pan on the stove. Still warm. Slightly overcooked, maybe. Abandoned in the name of hallway sex.
“Salmon might be past saving,” I say with a shrug. “Could’ve dried out. And the spinach salad’s probably wilting.”
She lifts the lid on the pan, pokes at the salmon with a fork, and narrows her eyes. “It’s actually perfect.”
“Oh. Well, shit.” I grin. “Guess we eat like adults tonight.”
She rolls her eyes and grabs plates as if it’s not a big deal that she’s still barefoot, in my shirt, eating with the man who just made her forget her name for ten straight minutes against a wall.
We sit across from each other—bare knees knocking under the table, pretending that everything’s normal.
Like she didn’t moan my name like a prayer.
Like I didn’t carry her into the shower like she was mine.
She takes a bite of the salad and sighs. “Strawberries are still good.”
“I’m shocked. Thought the whole fridge might’ve gone to hell while we were . . . occupied.”
“Time moves differently during hallway sex,” she says dryly, stabbing at a spinach leaf.
I nearly choke on my bite. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
She shrugs. “What else do you call something that leaves your soul and hamstrings permanently altered?”
I bark out a laugh. God, she’s fucking perfect.
For a moment, we simply eat. No tension. No teasing. Just the quiet clinks of forks and glasses. But it doesn’t last. Not for me.
Because the second she shifts in her chair—tugs the oversized shirt down over her thighs as if she's unaware of its effect on me—I know I’m doomed.
I can’t pretend anymore.
I can’t sit here and play it cool. Can’t smile across the table and then sleep two feet from her as if I don’t still taste her on my tongue.
I set down my fork.
She notices. Of course, she does.
Her eyes flick to mine, cautious. Curious. A little guarded.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not sleeping without you tonight.”
Her lips part.
Not in shock.
More like she knew this was coming. Like she was waiting for me to say it.
“I know you’re scared,” I say, voice low, “and I’m trying really fucking hard to be patient. But Liv . . . you in my bed? That’s not just about sex anymore. I want to hold you. I want to fall asleep with your leg over mine and your hair in my face and wake up to your complaining about my alarm.”
Her eyes soften. Her throat works around a swallow.
