Page 143 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
And that? That’s probably clause eleven or . . . who knows what the benefits are anymore? I just need him to take care of my cravings.
Lucian lifts his hands like he’s being arrested by the bedroom police. “No touching. No teasing. No violating FAA regulations. Got it.”
“Good.”
Good this is good, right?
My body tenses when he says, “But.” Because I think he’s about to violate all regulations and I might enjoy it.
Chapter Forty
Lucian
When You Hit the Emotional And Physical High Point (Pun Very Intended)
“And you love it.” He leans in, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with his thumb, lingering a little too long on my cheek.“You like how I make you feel. You enjoy knowing I’m sitting here wondering if you wore anything under that dress.”
“Lucian.”
“Or,” I offer with my most innocent expression—which, let’s be real, looks about as trustworthy as a fox in a henhouse—“we can just sit here in complete silence while I stare at your legs and fantasize about everything I’m going to do to you once we get to the estate.”
“I’m not having sex withyouin your family home,” she screeches.
“Not with me, huh? What if I come up with an alter ego? One with a tragic past and a forbidden passion for mouthy women?”
She groans. “Ugh. I wish Sarah wasn’t—where did you say she was?”
“The room.” I nod toward the end of the aisle.
She meets my gaze with a steady look. “The medication would have been enough. Crating her seems unnecessary.”
“It’s safer, Doc,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “And stop using our child as a distraction tactic. We’re discussing benefits—specifically, in-flight ones.”
She turns toward the window like that’ll somehow save her. Like, I can’t tell she’s already getting worked up just from the idea of me. Her chest lifts with every breath, and I know her thighs are pressed tight together beneath that sundress.
She’s fidgeting. Playing with the hem. Twisting her lips to keep from biting them.
She’s so goddamn hot when she’s trying not to combust.
The jet hums beneath us, a smooth vibration that seems to resonate with her tension. The pilot announces takeoff clearance, and I offer her a glass of wine—something red and overpriced. She accepts it as though it were armor.
It won’t help.
Nothing will. Not with the way she’s already squirming in that seat like she forgot how to sit still.
We sip in silence.
But the air between us?
It’s like foreplay.
I avoid looking at her directly, but I don’t need to. Her leg brushes against mine, and her breath hitches. My fingers rest on the armrest, lazy yet deliberate, positioned just close enough to serve as an invitation.
I know what she’s thinking. I’m banking on it.
“So,” she blurts, desperate to break the tension. “Are you going to warn me about your family?”
I chuckle. “I’ll run interference. Dad will grill you, but Papa? He’ll adore you.”
