Page 27 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian: Yeah. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She plays the sweet, innocent, “I’m just a little Vizsla” card, and you’re completely under her spell before you know it.
Olivia: Maybe you just don’t have the magic touch.
Lucian: Oh, sweetheart. If I put my hands on you, you’d never question my touch again.
Olivia: This conversation was going so well, and you just ruined it. Ruined it.
Lucian: Ruined it? Or made it a hell of a lot more interesting?
Olivia: You wish.
Lucian: I don’t need to wish. I know.
Olivia: You have an unhealthy amount of confidence in your . . . “touch.”
Lucian: I have the track record to back it up. Every stroke? Precise. Every move? Expertly timed. You wouldn’t stand a chance, Doc.
Olivia: Oh my God.
Lucian: What? Just stating facts.
Olivia: Facts require proof, and thank God I will never be able to verify any of your claims.
Lucian: Never say never, Liv. You might find yourself in a . . . compromising position someday. And when that happens, you’ll beg to be my next case study.
Olivia: I’d rather perform my own lobotomy.
Lucian: That’s a lot of effort when all you’d have to do is let me make you forget everything else for a little while.
Olivia: I am not discussing this.
Lucian: Fine. We can talk about something else. Like how you were looking at my hands earlier.
Olivia: I WAS NOT.
Lucian: You so were.
Olivia: I was watching you butcher my kitchen.
Lucian: Sure, let’s go with that. But I saw how your eyes lingered when I was kneading the meat—real slow, firm. Strong grip. Skilled fingers.
Olivia: Oh my God.
Lucian: And then when I was rolling up my sleeves . . . The way you swallowed? Thought I wouldn’t notice?
Olivia: Have I mentioned you’re delusional? And your sleeves were already rolled up. Have you considered writing fiction? That could be your second career if the football thing doesn’t work out.
Lucian: I’ll ignore the last part of your text (but that hurts, Olivia). My point is that even when you deny it, you’re thinking about it now. How those same hands would feel on your skin. How easily I could?—
Olivia: I’m busy, leave me alone.
Lucian: Or I could keep going . . . Because I bet if I were whispering this in your ear, you would forget what you’re doing.
Olivia: I’m so unamused.
Lucian: You’re turned on. Don’t deny it. You’d be too busy trying to keep quiet if I were there. Trying not to let that little gasp slip when I drag my fingers down your spine, grip your hips, pull you flush against me.
Olivia: I AM DELETING THIS CONVERSATION.
