Page 140 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian: I’ll make you sit on it, knees spread, hands tied behind your back with my shirt. Just like that. Dripping, panting, desperate. And when I finally fuck you? It won’t be gentle. It’ll be filthy, fast, rough. The kind of fuck you feel for days.
Lucian: I want you limping off this plane. Hair wrecked. Dress inside out. My come dripping down your thighs.
Lucian: So when people see you the next day, they’ll know. They’ll know you spent the night getting owned.
Olivia: I’m going to combust.
Lucian: Not yet. You’ll come for me first. On your knees. Then on my cock. Then again, in my mouth.
Lucian: And when I land this jet?
Lucian: I’ll fuck you again before we even make it to the house. Cabin door open. You bent over the stairs. Anyone could see.
Lucian: But they won’t.
Lucian: That’s just for me. Now, be a good girl and go touch yourself while I’m training. See you tonight, baby—be ready for more.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Olivia
Wherever You Sit, Sit Closer
The jet is... obscene.
If luxury and testosterone had a baby, and that baby grew up in a gated community with a private chef, a trust fund, anda penchant for matte gold finishes—this would be its personal aircraft.
Creamy leather seats. Authentic wood paneling. Fixtures that appear to be crafted from melted-down Rolexes. Plus, there’s a full mini-bar that’s likely better stocked than my entire kitchen.
“Liv,” Lucian calls from behind me, his voice warm and smooth, like the lighting in here was designed to make you fall in love with the nearest man in sweatpants. “You good? Or are you having a minor emotional breakdown about flying private?”
I glance over my shoulder, trying to look nonchalant and probably failing. He’s standing there with our overnight bags as if this is just another day. Like I didn’t just walk onto a plane that screams Miss Kensington, with guards armed and the champagne already chilled (insert stuffy accent).
Okay, so my last name isn’t Kensington and there are no guards. But I could totally fake an accent if needed.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just coming to terms with the reality that your tray table is pricier than my first car.”
Lucian grins, infuriatingly casual. “Good news is, this tray table doesn’t die when the temperature drops below forty.”
I roll my eyes, facing forward again, pretending my heart isn’t doing somersaults because I’m wearing a dress.
A real one.
Not leggings. Not a sweatshirt that has a faint odor of dog treats and regret. A soft, cream-colored, flirty dress that flutters just enough when I walk to make me question all my choices.
I may or may not have shaved above the knee for this man.
He hasn’t said a word about it yet, which means one of two things: he’s either playing it cool . . . or he’s saving it up to say something I won’t be able to recover from.
“Where should I sit?” I ask, setting down my purse like I haven’t already scanned the cabin and mentally chosen the seat farthest from the temptation of lap-based disaster.
Lucian doesn’t gesture vaguely or offer me a seat like a normal person.
“Come here.”
That’s all he says. No directions. No specifics. Just that.
Like an invitation and a challenge all wrapped in soft velvet and a smirk.
