Page 9 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia: I have a strong urge to block you.
Lucian: That would require admitting I’m getting to you. Can’t have that, huh?
Olivia: Your ego is a beast. I’d rather wrestle a crocodile.
Lucian: I bet I could make you beg.
Olivia: For you to shut up? Probably.
Lucian: For something else.
Olivia: Your delusions are next-level.
Lucian: You sure?
Olivia: Positive.
Lucian: Then explain why your breathing just changed.
Olivia: My what?
Lucian: You’re flustered. Even through text, I can feel it. You’re picturing it, aren’t you?
Olivia: I’m not liking this exchange at all.
Lucian: Nah, you love this. You love how I get under your skin. How I make you squirm.
Olivia: You are so . . .
Lucian: Detailed? Explicit? Capable?
Olivia: Infuriating.
Lucian: Sure . . . but your fingers haven’t stopped typing. What’s that about, Doc?
Olivia: You need a hobby.
Lucian: I just found one. Charming you. And I’m getting really, really good at it.
Olivia: Congratulations. You win the gold medal for being a pain in my ass. And what you call *charm* is more like an annoyance.
Lucian: Gold medals are nice, but I’d rather do something else with your ass . . . your mouth, your cunt. I’m good at it. Really good.
Olivia: I walked into that one, didn’t I?
Lucian: Oh, sweetheart. You didn’t just walk—you ran straight into it. Full speed. No hesitation.
Olivia: You’re disgusting.
Lucian: Not disgusting, dirty. I can prove it to you. Tell me when and what you like the most. I’ll deliver.
Olivia: I like when people leave me the fuck alone. Stop texting me—and fix my fence.
Lucian: Liar, you like me.
Olivia: Seriously, do you ever stop?
Lucian: Not until I get what I want.
