Page 21 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

For a second I just stare at him, because surely my brain has snapped clean in half and built this man out of bad judgment and wish fulfillment. Since the first day? Since the first day I showed up in my neat little scrubs pretending I was calm while secretly noticing every inch of him—the broad chest under his coat, the roughness in his voice after a twelve-hour shift, the impossible steadiness of those hands? Since then?

I stare at him. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

My mouth goes dry. He still hasn’t looked away. That almost undoes me more than the words themselves, the fact that he’s letting me see this, really see it, instead of dressing it up in politeness and restraint. I can feel heat rising under my skin, sharp and embarrassing and impossible to hide. Part of me wants to step back. The other part—the louder, more dangerous part—wants to cross the distance and find out if he kisses as thoroughly as he looks.

“You’re my boss.”

“Yes.”

“You’re my ex-boyfriend’s father.”

“Yes.”

“You’re twice my age.”

“Not quite,” he replies calmly.

The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself, because it’s so typical of him that’s what he corrects. Of course this infuriating man hears a whole list of reasons why we should absolutely not be standing here having this conversation and decides to quibble with the math. My heart is pounding hard enough to make me lightheaded.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“I’m aware.”

His hand settles at my waist then, not roughly, not even possessively at first, just firmly enough to make my whole body go alert. Every nerve in me seems to wake at once. He doesn’t pull me in immediately. He just leaves it there, thumb resting at the curve of my side like he knows exactly what that small contact is doing to me.

God.

This is what I wanted.

The thought flashes through me so suddenly I almost flinch from it. Not wanted in some vague, harmless little daydream way. Wanted like this. Cornered by his attention. Seen through. Held in place by a man who has spent far too long pretending he didn’t feel the same electric thing every time I walked into a room.

He watches my face as if he can hear every reckless thought.

“I can practically see you arguing with yourself,” he says.

“That’s because I am.”

“Who’s winning?”

I let out a shaky breath that almost becomes a laugh. “Unfortunately, not my judgment.”

That does something to his mouth, not quite a smile, something lower and rougher than that. His fingers tighten slightly at my waist, and the tiny movement sends heat skating through me.

“I should go,” I say, and I don’t move.

“You should.”

I hate how much that answer affects me. No chase. No pressure. No easy excuse to blame this on him. He leaves the choice with me, and somehow that feels more intimate than if he’d backed me against the wall and kissed the sense out of me.

Instead he just stands there, close enough that I can smell him, clean soap and starch and something darker underneath, and I realize with a small internal collapse that if I leave now I will think about this moment for the rest of my life.

My hand lifts before I can talk myself out of it. My fingertips brush his tie then flatten against his chest. Solid. Warm. Very, very real.

His eyes drop to my mouth.

I swallow. “You wanted me all this time?”