Page 153 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia: I plead temporary weakness.
Lucian: You say weakness. I say you looked so damn good unraveling under my mouth I nearly forgot my name.
Olivia: You’re delusional.
Lucian: I’m hard. There’s a difference.
Olivia: Lucian.
Lucian: Say it again. That voice. That breathy little sound you make when I slip a hand under your waistband and tell you not to move.
Olivia: I’m still at the stables.
Lucian: And I’m still thinking about how fast I’d drop to my knees if you walked into my room right now.
Olivia: You’re impossible.
Lucian: I’m yours. That’s the difference.
Olivia: Don’t say that like it’s sweet.
Lucian: It’s not sweet. It’s possessive. You’re mine. Mine. I want you back in my bed tonight—panting, shaking, gripping the sheets while I make you forget anyone else exists.
Olivia: You keep talking like that, and I’ll drag you behind the barn.
Lucian: Say the word, Halston. I’ll have you up against the wall, your thighs around my waist, begging for more.
Olivia: . . .
Lucian: What? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just imagining what I’ll do with mine?
Chapter Forty-Three
Lucian
The Part Where One Leaves and One Stays
The guest room is quiet.
Too quiet, considering my extended family is currently scattered around the estate like they’re filming some bizarrecrossover between Succession, Survivor, and Monopoly: Hostile Takeover Edition. Last I checked, Scottie was accusing Killion of dealing cards with his feet, and Kade had declared a hunger strike unless someone whipped up a batch of brownies. Love my family, but sometimes we can be a lot when we’re together.
Meanwhile, Greyson’s sulking in whatever dark corner he’s claimed for himself this trip, brooding through his last year of college, trying to pretend that the whole maybe-never-getting-drafted thing isn’t eating him alive. I feel for him. The fact that our parents didn’t allow him to go to Canada when he was sixteen or even be part of the draft before he finishes college. That’s exactly what they did to me. Either you finish college or there’s no going pro.
Now that I’m older, I get it. I wasn’t ready. Too cocky, too inexperienced and too . . . me to have survived if I had started younger. When I told Greyson of course he said I was an idiot and he couldn’t compare us.
And what about our parents? Dad and Papa are actively plotting to escape to Manhattan under the flimsy excuse of “checking on Luna.” Let’s be real- this means they want baby cuddles without the responsibilities of being a parent. Luna has replaced all of us, and honestly, I understand why. She’s tiny, majestic, and already runs the family like a benevolent monarch. We’d all die for her.
Olivia, however, is not in the room where I hoped I would find her so we could . . . I’m not sure if I just want to kiss her or maybe fuck her so she doesn’t forget she belongs to me.
I glance out the window, arms crossed, my eyes scanning the estate. The gardens glow in that late-afternoon golden-hour light that would make even the most hardened cynic consider taking up poetry. Somewhere past the pool, just beyond the manicured rows of hydrangeas, I glimpse the stables. Wide open, horses likely fed, content. Yet, no Olivia in sight.
Which means she’s still out there. With Sarah. And Buster.
That smug, retired show pony who, I’m now convinced, is actively trying to steal my girl. Okay, he’s a horse, and . . . Olivia is technically not my girlfriend. She’s my cohabitant, my contractually entangled, benefits-optional neighbor. She also happens to be the only woman I’ve ever thought about when my pillow smells like citrus shampoo and my chest feels—fuck, too tight—for no logical reason.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to knock the thought loose.
I’m not allowed to spiral. I’m tired. Post-family-game-shenanigans defeated. Emotionally waterlogged by extended family energy and too many rounds of Cards Against the Crawfords. Okay, that’s not a game, but it’s how it felt.
