Page 34 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

She nuzzles my neck, teeth catching skin. “Fuck, Nathan—don’t stop.”

My laugh comes out ruined. “You think I’m capable of stopping? Look at me.”

She does. That almost finishes me. Her face is flushed, hair wrecked, eyes dark, mouth swollen and wet. I can see her breasts lifting with each pant, feel the heat of her breath on my cheek, the tremor running through her thighs. It’s obscene and perfect.

“Say my name,” I order, voice scraping low.

She obeys. “Nathan.”

I slide a hand between us, find her with two fingers, and apply just enough pressure to make her jerk. Her cry ricochets off tile.

“There you are,” I say, voice white-hot. “Take it.”

She locks her ankles behind me, riding each thrust, dragging her nails over my shoulders. Sweat beads along her hairline. I bite her shoulder, not gentle in the slightest. I want the mark there later, want to see it and remember this bathroom and the way she clenched around me like she’d never let go.

“You like this,” I growl. “Say it.”

She laughs breathlessly, eyes wild. “I like you like this.”

I lose the tenuous grip on patience. I ram into her harder, faster, sense burning away. The counter is actually shuddering. She meets every thrust with hungry little lifts of her hips, whispers that disintegrate into moans, then full, shameless cries when I catch the exact rhythm she needs.

“You’re close,” I rasp, feeling the change, the way her body starts to seize around me.

She shakes her head, lying badly. “No.”

“Liar.” I roll her clit between my fingers and she chokes on a plea, entire body going taut.

“Holy—God—that⁠—”

“Come for me,” I order. “Right now.”

She breaks open like a snapped wire. The orgasm roars through her, heedless, unstoppable, and she buries her face in the crook of my neck to muffle the scream. Her walls clutch me, milking me relentlessly, muscles pulsing in hard waves that drag me closer than I planned.

“That’s it,” I groan, dark satisfaction coiling through me. “Give it to me.”

She’s still shaking when I pound into her, chasing my own finish with teeth clenched, forehead pressed to hers. The heat, the wet grip of her, the hiss of breath between my teeth—it all combines, detonates. I grind deep, burying myself to the hilt, and spill with a low, strangled sound that vibrates through both of us. My fingers leave prints on her hips. Her nails dig crescents into my shoulders. The whole room narrows to breath and aftershocks and the way she keeps holding on like letting go would mean falling straight through the floor.

Time spills back gradually. The faucet outside squeaks. Someone laughs, oblivious, while a guitar riff leaks through the door. Athena’s heartbeat thunders under my palm. Her skin is flushed crimson, sweat-slick and gorgeous.

She tilts her head, smiling the smug, dangerous smile that started this mess. “That was wildly unprofessional.”

“It was essential,” I say, kiss her once, slow and rough-edged. “And you’re the reason the mirror is fogged.”

Her laugh sparkles. She straightens her sweater with trembling fingers, musses her hair in an attempt to make it look less obviously ravished, then gives up and grins at her reflection. She looks satisfied, debauched, and radiant.

When we step back out, the hostess glances up and tries not to stare. Athena leans close, whispering, “They know.”

“They suspect,” I correct.

“That’s worse,” she mutters then steals a slice of my pizza, lips curving when she sees how smug I still look. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re delicious,” I say. “Finish your bite.”

She takes a slow, insolent bite, licking sauce from her thumb without breaking eye contact. I know right then I’m done pretending this is controllable.

Athena finishes her second slice of pizza like she’s been starving all day, which might actually be true considering the last hour we’ve had.

The booth is tucked toward the back of the restaurant, the air still warm from ovens and late dinner traffic, and the two of us are sitting a little closer than necessary while she wipes grease from her fingers with a paper napkin.