Page 33 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

I shake my head. “No.”

Nathan’s arm tightens slightly around my waist again. “Good.”

6

NATHAN SR

OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS

I can’t get enough of Athena, not even when she follows me into a cramped bathroom of a pizzeria and crushes her mouth against mine like she’s been starving for weeks.

I’m the one who turns the lock behind us. Her laugh shivers against my lips and her hands fist in my shirt, tugging me down as though I’m the only thing tethering her to gravity. The pulse jumping in her throat is the same wild tempo as mine.

“You didn’t even order,” she whispers, breath already unsteady.

“I already know what I want.” I press her against the counter, thigh wedged between her legs, and she lets out a soft gasp that sounds like I’ve just confirmed a rumor she’s always hoped was true.

She tastes like heat and defiance and soft, reckless need. The kiss goes dark fast. Her fingers slide under my jacket, over my chest, exploring like she finally has the freedom to memorize me. The charity-gala formalities, the hospital hallway restraint—we burned those down three days ago. This is the wreckage.

I lift her onto the counter. The porcelain groans. She wraps her legs around my waist like she was waiting for the command, eyes glittering, mouth flushed. Her nails drag into my scalp.

“You’re insufferably pleased with yourself,” she murmurs.

“You followed me.”

“I followed you to wash my hands.”

“That’s not what your hands are doing.” I pull her sweater off, reveal bare skin glazed in goosebumps, and let the fabric drop somewhere behind us. Her gaze flicks to the mirror. We look like sin: her perched on the counter, hair wild, lips swollen; me standing between her knees, shirt half-untucked, tie crooked, palms already mapping the warm curve of her waist.

“We look guilty,” she says.

“We are.”

“That’s unfairly hot.”

Her laugh melts into a hiss when I grip her thigh and push it wider. Denim stretches under my palm, heat radiating through the fabric. She arches, instincts betraying her before she finds words. I remove those too. The sound of her zipper being pulled down should be classified as dangerous.

“Tell me you planned this,” she whispers.

“I prayed for it.”

“Confident man.”

“I’ve had encouragement.”

Her eyes burn. Her fingers find my belt, tug it loose, and the metallic click echoes like a spark catching tinder. We move in jerky, urgent pulls, not polished at all, just hungry. I hook my thumb in her waistband and drag, exposing inch after inch until she’s bared for me, cheeks flushing as cool air kisses her skin.

“Nathan,” she breathes, pupils blown wide.

“I know.” I don’t tease. I push into her in one smooth stroke that wipes out whatever remained of good sense. Her back slams against the mirror, head tipping back, mouth open on a shattered sound she half-smothers against my shoulder.

She is hot and tight and fiercely alive. I stay buried for a beat, just feeling her, feeling us, and then I start to move, long and hard, each thrust punctuated by the dull knock of porcelain against tile. The mirror trembles behind her, the sink rattles, and the music from the dining room fades under the quick, wet rhythm of bodies colliding.

“Still worried someone might hear?” I murmur against her jaw.

Her eyes flutter shut. “Not anymore.”

“Good girl.” I catch her hands and pin them to the mirror, fingers interlaced, every muscle on edge. She clenches down around me like she’s trying to drag me deeper, to keep me there, to fuse us. My name spills out of her in broken double syllables, and each one tightens something metallic in my chest.