Page 30 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian: But if you allow it, you’ll absolutely love it.
Olivia: You’re wrong.
Lucian: Prove me wrong. Let me tie you up, make you scream, have you so wrecked that you forget anything exists outside of me fucking you into oblivion.
Olivia: No.
Lucian: Be honest, Liv. Your hand is between your thighs right now, isn’t it? You’re soaked. You’re rubbing that pretty clit, wishing it was me.
Olivia: I need to block you.
Lucian: No, you need me. So stop fighting it. Open that door. I promise, sweetheart—once I get inside, I won’t stop until you’re begging me to keep going.
Chapter Ten
Lucian
I Like My Coffee Black and My Olivia Flustered
The first thing I notice when I walk into Olivia’s clinic is that she’s completely unprepared for today. Not only that, but this place needs more than just a coat of paint. I should call thecontractor and pay for the repairs myself—pretend I’m working overnight to get this place in shape.
The second thing I notice?
She’s trying way too hard to pretend last night’s conversation never happened.
It’s fucking adorable.
I bet she didn’t sleep at all, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I really wanted to tie her to her bed and spank her until she begged for my cock.
Not that I even know if I want that with her.
Don’t get me wrong—she’s hot as hell. Beautiful in that effortless way that sneaks up on you. But there’s a huge difference between casually fucking a stranger and taking responsibility for someone’s pleasure. Really taking responsibility for it.
More so when she barely trusts me.
Sure, Sarah loves her and would probably commit a felony on her behalf, but Olivia and I? That’s . . . different. There would have to be a lot more involved before I followed through on anything I texted her last night.
Still, I was hoping she’d be a little flustered today. Maybe even a little curious.
Instead?
She looks like she scrubbed my texts from existence, deleted my magic, and never gave them a second thought.
I glance at her, assessing.
Yeah. Nothing.
She clutches a clipboard as if it’s a weapon. Her hair is styled in an indecisive half-up, half-down situation, like she either ran out of time or didn’t care enough to fully commit. Paint smudges her cheek, and her white T-shirt appears to have lost a battle with a bucket of primer.
And yet, she still has the audacity to scowl at me like I’m the problem here.
“You’re late,” she announces. No ‘hello,’ no ‘good morning,’ just straight to the judgment.
I glance at the ancient clock hanging above the reception desk. “It’s ten-thirty.”
She lifts a brow like that means something.
I hold up the coffee and the bag in my hands. “I brought supplies.” I shake the bag slightly. “And a big muffin. The kind I know you like.” My lips curve into a smile. “You like it big, Doc. And I enjoy delivering.”
