Page 71 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

A surge of irritation returns, steading me just enough to think straight. He doesn’t get to stroll back into my life, say one careful line to my child, kiss me like he’s starving, then expect me to chase him.

Then my body supplies its own opinion, loud and unhelpful.

Chase him.

For a second, I close my eyes then open them and choose a middle path that feels like mine. I’m not begging, apologizing, or pretending this solves anything. I unblock his contact and type.

Athena: You can’t kiss me like that and then walk away.

I hit send, toss the phone onto the cushion, then snatch it back because I’m not that chill and we both know it. The typing indicator appears instantly. He’s been waiting. Nathan doesn’t sleep when there’s unfinished business, I should have remembered that.

Nathan: I didn’t walk away to punish you. Say the word, and I’ll come back.

I swallow, pull my knees to my chest, and glare at the silent television because I need something to focus on that isn’t the memory of his mouth.

Athena: I’m still mad at you.

Nathan: I don’t blame you. I’m mad at myself for everything I missed out on.

Decency drips off the words, infuriatingly gentle. He’s better than he has any right to be after the mess we made. Six years apart, six years of me raising our daughter alone because he once swore he’d never be a father, and now he wants back in? I shake my head angrily. This isn’t part of the plan right now. All I want is sex.

Athena: I didn’t ask you to be decent.

Nathan: I know what you need, Athena. And you don’t always need to tell me. I missed it one time, that’s on me. But I’m not repeating that same mistake.

Heat flushes down my spine because he’s right. My silence has always been a weapon and a shield. I walked out of his life pregnant because I thought sparing him the choice was merciful.

I stare at Ivy’s closed door, at the crayon drawings taped beside it. I stare at my hand and the way it curls protectively over my chest. He left because he’s trying to do better. It makes forgiveness harder, not easier, because anger needs villains and he refuses to play his part.

Athena: This solves nothing between us. I’m still angry, and I’m still not ready to hand you my life.

Now that I’m on a roll, I really can’t stop.

Athena: I want you here. I want you to come home and fuck me until I forget my own name.

My thumb hovers above send for a beat, then I tap, and the message whooshes into the ether.

His reply hits ten seconds later.

Nathan: Say it again.

There’s a sentence that unravels six years of self-control. My breath skitters. I picture him, shirt open at the throat, tie loose, hair mussed, staring at his phone with that feral focus he wore when he used to watch me undress. I sink deeper into the couch, thigh muscles clenching, the hem of my hoodie brushing bare skin. God help me, I’m still his.

Athena: Come home. Fuck me mindless.

Nathan: Where are you right now?

The question is surgical, designed to anchor me in detail. I glance around the living room: the lamp casting golden light, the blanket thrown over the armrest, the remnants of Ivy’s Lego empire under the coffee table. This is the home I built without him. He’s at my door again anyway.

Sighing, I head to the bedroom and shut the door behind me before dropping down on a little couch by a window.

Athena: Couch in my bedroom. Hoodie. No panties.

He replies with two words that slice through the remaining distance.

Nathan: Good girl.

Heat floods me, fast and wild, because his praise always felt like a brand. I drag the phone closer, breath catching.