Page 72 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Nathan: Hands above the waist. Wait for me.

My laugh is sharp.

Athena: You don’t get to order me around from twelve miles away.

Nathan: You asked me to come home. That means you’re mine again. Don’t touch what belongs to me unless I tell you.

The possessive undertone of his text makes me blush.

Athena: Make me.

Nathan: If I were there, you’d already be on your knees with your mouth open. Don’t test me.

My body liquefies at the image. I curl my fingers against my cunt, biting my lip to stifle the moan.

Athena: I told you not to be decent.

Nathan: I can’t be anything else with you. That doesn’t mean I’ll be gentle. Now remove the hoodie and send me a picture.

My heart hammers so loud I’m sure the neighbors can hear it. I glance around even though no one’s here, then peel the hoodie off one shoulder. Cool air skates over my skin. I angle the camera downward, capturing bare legs, bare stomach, the faint scar from Ivy’s emergency c-section running low across my pelvis. I hesitate over the jagged line, then leave it in. He should see what he missed. I send it across.

Nathan: That scar should have a set of lips worshipping it every night. I’m ashamed I wasn’t there.

Anger and arousal slam together. Tears burn behind my eyes because the words are everything I wanted then and never thought I’d hear now. My thumb hovers. I type before vulnerability can turn to rage.

Athena: Words are cheap. Get over here and show me.

Nathan: I’m on my way. In the meantime, I want you ready. Put two fingers inside and hold them there. No movement until I say so.

I curse under my breath, but he’s already sending another message.

Nathan: Speakerphone. Now.

My stomach drops. I hit call. The line clicks, his breathing a rough whisper. “Tell me when your fingers are in.”

“Why does that matter?” I rasp.

“Because six years ago I lost the right to know what your skin feels like,” he says evenly. “Tonight you gave me that right back. Don’t make me question it.”

God, the man weaponizes sincerity. My hand trembles as I slide two fingers into the slick heat between my thighs. I gasp silently, eyes fluttering shut. “In.”

“Good girl.” The praise is a caress. “Clamp around them. I want my pussy tight when I get there.”

“You think it’s still yours?” I say, trying for venom and landing somewhere closer to a plea.

“I know it is.” His voice lowers. “I know because you ran instead of letting some other man touch what’s mine. You kept yourself angry instead of replacing me. That’s devotion, whether you admit it or not.”

My throat closes. “Fuck you.”

“You’re trying.” The chuckle dissolves into a growl. “Now breathe. Describe what you feel.”

“Wet.” The word shakes out of me. “Hot. I’m squeezing so hard it hurts.”

“I want the hurt.” His inhale is rough. “Leave your fingers there. That hand? It belongs to me tonight. The other hand—you can rub circles on your clit.”

I do as ordered, thumb finding the swollen bundle of nerves. The stroke is slow, teasing, enough to send sparks up my thighs but not enough to get me anywhere.

“Faster,” he says, as if he can see the frustration.