Page 23 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

My lips part. “Nathan⁠—”

“No.” He steps closer, just enough that my back nearly brushes the wall behind me. “You asked me why now.” His voice lowers further. “Now because if I wait any longer, I’m going to start resenting every second I spent pretending this was nothing.”

Heat blooms low in my stomach, thick and dizzying. I can barely think. Every fantasy I ever had about him was vivid, yes, but none of them got these particular details right: the way he doesn’t rush. The way he uses restraint like foreplay. The way he says things that make my knees weak while barely moving at all.

I wet my lips. “And what exactly is the difference?”

His gaze drops to my mouth again. “You really want me to answer that?”

My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “I really want you to.”

His hand tightens at the back of my neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold my attention exactly where he wants it.

“The difference…is that a boy takes what he wants and calls it passion.” His thumb tilts my chin up. “A man pays attention.” His mouth is only inches from mine now, each word felt as much as heard. “A man learns you.” His other hand settles at my hip, anchoring me. “A man knows how to take his time until you’re shaking for him then decides whether he wants to be merciful.”

A broken little breath escapes me before I can stop it.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“That’s what I thought.”

I should be embarrassed by how affected I am. Instead I’m too busy trying not to melt into the wall. My hands fist in his shirt without conscious permission. I can feel the strength in him so clearly up close, all that control wrapped around hunger, all that composure pulled taut over something that has apparently wanted me just as long as I’ve wanted him.

“You say things like that,” I whisper, “and then you expect me to think clearly?”

“I don’t expect that at all.”

That almost makes me laugh again, except he bends his head and brushes his nose once, lightly, against mine, and the tiny intimacy of it steals the sound from me.

“I’ve imagined this,” I confess.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I know.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

His mouth finally ghosts over mine, once, barely there. A warning shot. A promise. My entire body responds like it has been waiting for that one touch for years. Because it has.

“Then tell me,” he murmurs against my lips.

The heat in my face is unbearable. “You first.”

His mouth curves faintly. “Demanding.”

“Nervous.”

His hand slides down my back, broad palm warm and steady, and when it settles at the base of my spine it feels deliberate in a way that sends a fresh wave of want through me.

“I imagined you losing this brave little attitude the first time I kissed you properly,” he says. “I imagined finding out what sounds you make when someone touches you exactly the way you need.” His mouth brushes mine again, closer this time, fuller. “I imagined you discovering that being wanted and being cared for can happen in the same breath.”

That one gets me.

Not the dirtiest line. Not the most direct. That one.

Because underneath all the heat is something that feels almost more dangerous: the possibility that with him this wouldn’t just be thrilling, it would be devastatingly good. Thoughtful. Intentional. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t just strip your clothes off, it strips your defenses too.

My fingers slide up into the front of his shirt, clutching. “If you keep talking, I’m going to do something irresponsible.”

His answer is immediate. “Then do it.”