Page 144 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“And what exactly did you tell them?”
“You’re smart, sarcastic, and possibly armed. You’re also the reason Sarah has developed a preference for fancy TV shows over sports.”
She blinks. “That’s it?”
I lean in, close enough for her to feel my breath. “That’s the PG version. The rest . . .” I smirk. “They’ll figure out from the way I look at you.”
Her throat bobs. She glances down at her drink. Then, at her dress.
Then—because she’s the most dangerous kind of curious—she whispers, “And how do you look at me?”
I don’t answer.
I set my glass down. Undo my seatbelt.
And I look.
Real slow.
From the soft waves of her hair to the neckline of that dress that’s daring gravity to try its luck. My gaze drops to her thighs—smooth, parted just enough to tempt. I look at her like she’s the fucking meal.
Not dessert.
Dinner.
Main course.
My tongue runs across my bottom lip as I lean in, close enough to watch her pupils dilate.
“You look at me like you’re starving,” she breathes.
I grin. “That’s because I am.”
The seatbelt light blinks off.
Good.
Because I don’t wait.
I reach down, hook my fingers under the hem of her sundress, and push it up—slow enough to tease, fast enough to own it. Her thighs fall open for me without hesitation. And there she is.
Goddamn.
She’s soaked. Pink. Glowing like temptation itself, slick with need and just fucking waiting for me.
“Fuck, baby,” I murmur, dropping to my knees in front of her like I’m about to deliver a prayer.
But first—improvisation.
I glance toward the minibar, grab the gold swizzle stick from the old-fashioned glasses, and test the tip with my thumb. It’s smooth. Slim. A little warm from the cabin.
Perfect.
Olivia’s eyes go wide. “Lucian?—”
“Oh no, princess. You don’t get to use that voice unless you mean it.”
I press the metal rod to her lips. “Open.”
