Page 99 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
His mouth. His hands. That kiss last night—desperate and raw, as if I were oxygen and he had gone years without breathing.
Those texts.
Those texts.
The things that this man has sent me during staff meetings and grocery runs are filthy, brazen, and perfectly targeted smut that makes me question every moral fiber I thought I possessed.
And now?
Now, I’m wondering what it would feel like. No barriers. No latex. No buffer.
Just him. Skin on skin. Nothing between us.
And that . . . isn’t just sex. That’s trust. That’s intimate. It’s real in a way I haven’t allowed myself to think about in a long time.
My fingers twitch.
“Problem?” Lucian asks, lounging like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he didn’t just casually nuke my brain from across the kitchen.
“I don’t know if I have time to go to the doctor just to get a comprehensive STI panel,” I say, voice higher than usual. More like a squeak. Fantastic.
“We can have the team physician swing by,” he offers, far too casually. “Discrete. Fast. Reliable.”
“I swear to God, if you tell the team we’re getting tested for sex?—”
“I won’t tell the whole team,” he interrupts, laughing. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll hire someone. Private. Zero connections to football.”
“You’re not helping,” I hiss, clutching the paper like it personally betrayed me. “I’m just saying we can use condoms. Like regular people.”
His brows lift slightly. “When were you last tested?”
I narrow my eyes. “Around my birthday. June.”
“Perfect,” he says as if this whole thing is a business transaction and not a complete emotional breakdown on my end. “You could share the results. I’ll share mine from last week, and we’re good.”
“No,” I snap. “We are not good. This isn’t some . . . history report. That’s too intimate. Not using condoms is a whole thing.”
“Is that what you always do?” he asks, curious but not pushy.
I stare at him. “Why? Is that what you always do? Not use condoms with rando FWB?”
He leans back slightly, his face shifting—something quieter there, something that makes me shut up and listen.
“I don’t have sex as often as people like to believe, Olivia.”
I snort. “Sure.”
He doesn’t smile. “I mean it. Since my divorce? It’s been . . . hard. Hard to meet someone I trust enough to even think about going there.”
I soften. Just slightly.
He looks at me, no trace of his usual smirk. “When you find out your marriage was built around how much she could get from you, not how much she loved you . . . it kills the whole casual thing. Makes you question what’s real.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Because I didn’t expect that.
And now I’m standing here, completely disarmed by a clause in a joke sex agreement and the raw, tired truth on his face.
