Page 55 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian: Oh, no, baby. I think you’d fucking love it. You’d let me use you, fuck your throat raw, and when I pull back, dragging my cock along your tongue, you’d look up at me all wrecked and desperate, just waiting for me to shove it back in.
Olivia: Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t be in control.
Lucian: Oh, you wanna be the one in charge? Fine. Let’s see how long you last before you break. Before I have you splayed out, legs shaking, my cock buried deep in that soaking wet cunt while you beg me to retake control.
Olivia: You keep talking, but I think you’re all bark and no bite.
Lucian: Sweetheart, the things I’d do to you? You wouldn’t survive them.
Olivia: Try me.
Lucian: Oh, baby, I intend to. Pack your bag. Get in the car. And be fucking ready for me.
Lucian: Liv, are you there?
Lucian: Liv?
Lucian: You can’t leave me like this, hard and needy.
Lucian: You’ll pay for teasing me like this.
Chapter Seventeen
Olivia
When Sexting Happens . . . How to Deal with The Morning After
My night did not go as planned.
Honestly, I can’t even recall how it went after drinking half a bottle of tequila and the cheap-ass boxed rosé Aspen bought the day she helped me move in.
Which, really, I should’ve known was a setup for disaster. No good night ever begins with boxed wine and ends with tequila.
Unsurprisingly, I wake up to regret.
And a mouth so dry it feels like I’ve been chewing on actual sandpaper.
I crack one eye open and immediately regret everything. The sun is too bright, my head is too loud, and my body is actively rejecting my life choices. It’s as if my entire system got together in the middle of the night, held an intervention, and unanimously agreed to punish the fuck out of me for my deeply questionable drinking decisions.
I swallow—big mistake.
It’s like licking cotton balls soaked in regret and bad decisions. I groan, rolling over in bed, only to uncover two more nightmares:
My phone is dead—which means I have no clue what kind of drunk calls I may or may not have made last night. I hope I didn’t call Mom telling her I’m a failure and my late father’s inheritance was blown on a dead animal clinic and a rotten house.
I’m wrapped up in a couch blanket, which means I never went to bed. No wonder my back is killing me. Maybe once I recover financially, I’ll invest in a couch that screams less ‘college student’ and more ‘welcome to adulthood.’
I groan louder.
What the fuck, Olivia?
I judge past me.
Hard. So fucking hard.
I judge her so aggressively that if time travel were possible, I would slap last-night Olivia across the face and force-feed her agallon of water and some chips. Maybe even have her drain the wine in the kitchen sink before she safely went to bed.
I try to sit up.
