Page 43 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“I invited you for a walk.”
“I didn’t want to go on, but you tricked me with a puppy.” She points at Sarah, who is now rolling around in the grass, completely oblivious to the life-or-death conversation happening behind her. “That’s forcing, in my book.”
“It does seem to be a theme with you,” I muse, adopting my best therapist voice, which I know irritates her. “I say ‘puppy,’ and suddenly you ask where and do whatever people tell you. You even tolerate me. Would you like to discuss that?”
She stops abruptly, hands on her hips, and whirls to face me.
Which is very unfortunate for her, because stopping suddenly on an incline?
Not the brightest idea—her foot slips. She yelps. And I do what any decent man would do: I grab her before she falls. Except I don’t just grab her. I pull her into me. Suddenly, her body is pressed flush against mine.
Her hands grip my forearms, fingers curling into my skin as if she’s grasping for dear life. Her breath is warm against my throat, her chest rising and falling far too quickly for someone who just slipped half a foot.
Olivia goes completely still.
Which is impressive, considering I can feel her pulse racing against my skin. Her eyes lift to mine—wide, startled—like she wasn’t expecting this. Like she wasn’t expecting me.
Or maybe . . . wasn’t expecting to like being in my arms. I won’t lie—I wasn’t expecting this either. The softness of her body pressed against mine. The way she fits—perfectly, instinctively—suggests she belongs there as if she were meant to be there. Yeah, this is entirely unexpected.
And not good.
No bueno at all.
Because everything shifts suddenly.
The teasing.
The banter.
The game we’ve been playing.
It’s different now.
The tension.
The pull.
The electric charge between us. It’s thick. Heavy in the air, stretching out the silence like something is about to happen.
And fuck—I want it too.
I study her. The way her lips part —on the verge of speaking, but the words don’t follow. Or maybe . . . Maybe she wasn’t going to say anything at all. Perhaps she was going to . . . My gaze drops to her mouth. Her lips—slightly swollen from her biting them all fucking day while she’s trying to figure out how to fix the world.
Her mouth was soft and inviting, and she craved something. And fuck if I don’t want to taste her. I want to savor her so fucking bad.
This isn’t like when I text her to mess with her.
Not like when I tease her to see her roll her eyes.
No.
This time, I want to devour her.
I want to take her apart, piece by piece.
To feel her body melt against mine, to hear the exact sound she makes when I slide my tongue between her lips.
To pull her closer—so close she forgets why she ever fought this, why she ever thought resisting me was a good idea.
