Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucian: Morning, sunshine.
How are my favorite girls?
Olivia: Who are these “girls” you speak of?
Lucian: You and Sarah, obviously.
How’s she doing today?
Olivia: Your child is thriving.
Obviously—she’s with me.
Lucian: What does that even mean?
Olivia: It means I’m the fun parent in this situation.
Lucian: So I’m the bad cop here?
Olivia: I’m parenting a dramatic, sock-stealing, doorbell-hating diva.
That qualifies me for something.
Lucian: Sounds like you’re describing yourself.
Olivia: Wow. So ungrateful to the woman raising your child.
Plus, you owe me several pairs of socks already.
Lucian: I never said I wasn’t grateful.
I just said you’re dramatic.
The two can coexist. I’ll add the socks to your payment.
Olivia: Whatever. How’s training camp?
What do people even do at those?
Shouldn’t you be here signing autographs and flexing, or whatever you do when you want attention?
Lucian: That’s next week.
This week is for altitude conditioning.
No oxygen. Lots of pain.
It’s literally kicking my ass.
Olivia: So, you’re telling me you’re sweaty, breathless, and sore?
You’re basically describing my cardio nightmare.
Lucian: I’m living your worst-case scenario.
Except hotter. With more grunting.
Olivia: Grunting? That’s not the selling point you think it is.
Lucian: You haven’t heard me.
It’s very . . . primal.
Olivia: Ew. Did you just refer to yourself as primal?
Lucian: I did. And I stand by it.
You’re welcome.
Olivia: I’m amazed you can text complete sentences between that and the high-altitude hallucinations.
Lucian: Who said I was coherent?
For all you know, I’m just lying on the floor of a gym, dying slowly, texting my favorite girl for emotional support.
Olivia: You’re so dramatic.
Now I get where Sarah got her personality from.
Lucian: Takes one to know one, Fun Parent.
Olivia: I am the fun parent.
Lucian: So, Fun Parent.
Admit it. You miss me.
Olivia: I don’t miss you at all.
Lucian: Well, if you must know, I miss you.
I miss a lot of things.
Your sarcasm. Your coffee.
That little noise you make when you pretend not to laugh at my jokes.
Olivia: That’s not a noise.
That’s called restraint.
Lucian: Mmm. Can’t wait to test your limits when I get back.
Olivia: You test them every freaking day, and just so you know, I’m not some weird challenge to conquer.
Lucian: Oh, you are—the best kind.
Smart mouth, sharp comebacks, and legs I think about way too often.
Olivia: Flattery won’t get you anywhere.
Lucian: Not trying to get out of it.
Just hoping when I get back, you’ll be the one making me sweat.
Olivia: You’re beginning to digress.
This isn’t subtle at all.
Lucian: Subtlety is for men who don’t know what your moan sounds like in their imagination.
Olivia: You’ve officially lost your mind.
Lucian: Or maybe I’m just losing patience.
You have no idea what it’s like, being out here, waking up hard every damn morning, thinking about you in my bed—wearing one of those ridiculous little sleep sets I know you pretend are just “comfortable.”
Olivia: Comfortable and practical.
Lucian: Comfortable, sure.
But I bet they ride up your thighs when you roll over.
I bet the fabric barely covers your ass.
I bet if I pulled the covers back, I’d find you spread out, skin warm, lips parted, begging to be touched.
Olivia: That’s an extremely vivid imagination.
Lucian: That’s from memory, sweetheart.
You forget I saw you that night.
Tank top. Bare legs.
Hair a mess. You looked like sin and sleep and something I wanted to put my mouth on.
Olivia: Lucian.
Lucian: Say it like that when I’m between your thighs, and I won’t stop until your voice breaks.
Olivia: You’re insufferable.
Lucian: And I bet you’re soaked right now, right?
Lying in bed, phone in your hand, heart pounding because you want this.
You want me.
Olivia: I’m at the dog park, playing fetch with Sarah .
. . but nice try. Your sexting does nothing to me.
Lucian: It does everything for you.
I know that later you’ll get home and you’ll imagine me home, sliding that tank top up, and dragging my tongue over your nipples until you arch.
You want my hand between your legs, fingers deep inside you while I whisper all the filthy things I’m going to do to you next.
Olivia: That’s quite a scenario .
. . It’s still not doing anything to me.
Not at all.
Lucian: I’ll pin your wrists above your head, fuck you slow and deep until your legs shake and you forget your name.
You think you’re tough?
We’ll see how tough you are when I have you coming on my cock while I tell you how good you take it.
Olivia: Nothing. I’m immune to your texts.
Lucian: You’re not. Now be a good girl and tell me what you’re wearing.
Or better yet—take a picture and show me.
Olivia: Okay, you asked for it.
Lucian: What the fuck?
You sent me a picture of Sarah wearing a sweatshirt?
Olivia: Imagine us wearing matching sweatshirts.
Now, stop bothering us. We’re busy.