Page 24 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

So I kiss him.

I pour in every stolen glance and buried thought and late-night fantasy condensed into one reckless decision. My mouth meets his and he takes over within a heartbeat, one hand firm at my back, the other still at my neck, kissing me with a depth that makes my knees go weak exactly the way I knew it would. Worse, actually. Better. His mouth is skilled and unhurried and devastatingly certain, like he’s been holding himself back for so long that now he intends to savor every second of not doing that.

A small sound slips out of me into the kiss, humiliating and helpless.

He breaks away just enough to look at me. “That’s what I thought.”

“Oh, you are insufferable,” I breathe.

“And you’re trembling.”

I am. I hate that he can tell. I hate that I like that he can tell even more.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, then the place just beneath my ear, and the sensation goes straight through me like warm liquor. My head tips back before I can stop it. Every brush of his mouth feels measured, chosen. He is proving his point in real time, and the worst part is that he is proving it beautifully.

“This,” I whisper, fingers tightening in his shirt, “this is exactly why I tried not to think about you.”

His lips move at my throat. “And how did that work out for you?”

A laugh catches and turns into a breathy sound when his teeth graze my skin. “Poorly.”

“Mm.”

I can feel his satisfaction, quiet and dangerous. My mind is a riot now, bright with want, with disbelief, with the dizzy thrill of finally having the thing I taught myself not to hope for. This is what I wanted for so long. This. His hands. His mouth. The impossible luxury of his full attention.

“I should probably be ashamed of how much I like this,” I murmur.

His head lifts. His eyes are dark enough now to make me shiver all over again.

“Don’t waste a second of this on shame,” he says.

The words sink deep.

Something in me softens, opens. I look at him and know with sudden, dangerous clarity that if he asks for honesty now, he’ll get all of it.

“I wanted this for years,” I say quietly.

His gaze holds mine. “I know.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean really wanted it. I used to go home and tell myself I was being ridiculous, and then I’d see you the next day and start all over again.” My hand smooths over his chest, almost disbelieving. “And now you’re here saying things like that and touching me like this and I honestly don’t know how I’m supposed to survive it.”

He studies me for a long second. When he speaks again the heat is still there, but now it’s wrapped around something steadier.

“You won’t have to survive it,” he says. “You’ll just have to let me take care of it.”

The blush that rushes through me is immediate and absolute.

“Jesus,” I whisper.

His mouth brushes mine once more, slow enough to make me ache. “That’s one reaction.”

I laugh softly, helplessly, and he kisses me again before I can come up with anything smarter, one hand sliding higher along my back as if he’s already memorizing me.

Somewhere in the blur of heat and nerves and vindicated longing, one thought keeps pulsing bright as a struck nerve.

Finally.

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