Page 113 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

This time, her reply takes long enough to feel intentional.

Athena: Finish your suffering on the couch for five more minutes, Dr. Clarke. Then come upstairs and tell me exactly how much you missed me in the last ten.

I stare at the message for a second then laugh under my breath.

24

NATHAN SR

“You took six minutes,” Athena notes without looking up the moment I enter the bedroom.

“You counted,” I chuckle deeply.

“I always do.” She sets the papers aside and finally lifts her gaze. “Shut the door, Nathan.”

I obey because I’d follow that voice anywhere. The rough click of the latch seems indecently loud. She sits up, legs swinging over the edge, and crooks a finger. “Come here.”

“I thought the email was vital.”

“It was,” she says. “I told the editor to wait because my fiancé demands attention.”

That word detonates under my ribs. I stop halfway across the room. “Say that again.”

She stands, the slip falling around her thighs, and closes the distance until we share breath. “Fiancé.” She says it like a threat, like a promise. “You asked. I said yes.”

My heart crowds my throat. On instinct, I reach for her left hand, thumb brushing over the simple ring. The diamond glints against her skin.

“You agreed to marry me,” I murmur, still half disbelieving even though I watched her sign the lease, watched her move into my life piece by piece.

“I did,” she says in that low, dangerous voice. “Now show me why that was the right decision.”

I can’t laugh, can’t do anything except pull her flush against me and crush my mouth to hers. The kiss is deep immediately, the kind that tastes like years denied. My hands roam her back, palm the curve of her ass, squeeze until she gasps into my mouth. The slip bunches under my fingers, satin rubbing my knuckles raw. She hooks her arms around my neck, arches, and the soft press of her breasts against my chest almost makes me lose the plan entirely. I step forward, walk her backward until her knees hit the mattress. She falls, pulling me down with her.

“Clothes off,” she says between bites, tearing at the buttons of my shirt like they wronged her.

“I can’t watch you in that slip and still manage buttons,” I mutter, shrugging out of the shirt, letting it fall. She pushes the fabric from my shoulders, fingers skating over the scars along my ribs, reverent and hungry at once.

“Lie down,” she orders.

I obey, falling back against the pillows. She straddles me, hair falling like ink around her face, eyes heavy-lidded. “Hold still,” she says, lowering herself until the thin fabric of the slip is the only thing between my skin and hers. She grinds slowly, deliberately, and I clench my jaw because the friction alone makes stars explode behind my eyes.

“You’re wearing too much.” I hook my thumbs under the straps and tug them down, exposing her breasts. She’s flushed already, nipples pebbled, and I can’t not take one into my mouth. I suck hard, tongue rolling, and she arches with a hiss.

“Say it,” she demands.

“What?”

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I growl against her skin. “And you’re mine.”

“Good.” She slides the slip off entirely, tosses it aside, and continues grinding, skin slick against mine. I grip her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, but she slaps my hands away. “No. Hands behind your head.”

I arch a brow.

“Do it,” she says, eyes flashing.

I lace my fingers behind my skull, biceps flexing, and let her take control. She shifts back, lowers herself until my cock is pressed against her entrance, and rubs the head against her clit with an obscene wet sound. Her head tips back, mouth open, a low moan rolling out. I watch, transfixed.