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Can't Text This (Page 2)

My heart’s racing, this time for all the wrong reasons, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

I push at the big wall of muscle blocking me in, and he moves out of my way as I hop off the counter, frowning at me.

“Monty?”

“I… This… We…” I huff, annoyed with myself for not being able to get the words out. “I cannot believe I just let you do…that!”

He smirks, and I hate how sexy it looks on him. He takes two steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my face. I gasp at the touch, and it makes me so mad that I react at all.

His lips brush against my ear. “Touch you, Monty. I touched you. I put my fingers inside you and rubbed your sweet little clit until you came undone beneath me. That’s what I did.” He trails his lips along my face until they’re resting against my mouth and he’s kissing me all over again.

And I let him. I let him consume me, take control, and move his lips over mine in whatever way he pleases. I don’t know what’s come over me, and in this very moment I don’t care.

Until another loud knock sounds on the door.

“No. This isn’t me. You…you don’t understand.” I laugh humorlessly. “How could you? You’re a stranger.”

He lets out an irritated sigh, and I can’t blame the guy. I got my rocks off but he’s still standing there with a boner. “I thought we discussed this already.”

“We did…but I just…I can’t. This isn’t me.”

“You keep saying that. What does it mean?”

I wave a hand down my body. “See this? See my outfit? Does this scream bathroom sex to you?”

His hard eyes rake over me and I can feel the heat licking my skin.

It’s a slow perusal from head to toe. He scans over my freckled face that perfectly complements my long red hair, my black cashmere sweater with the white shirt underneath, the knee-length floral skirt I’m wearing, right down to my perfect white Keds.

I don’t look like I belong in this bathroom, let alone this bar, not with someone like him, and we both know it.

He doesn’t say anything, and I take that as my cue to leave.

I hastily straighten my clothes and spin toward the counter, looking for the cross-body purse I was wearing when we rushed in here. I glance in the mirror and regret it.

My lips are swollen, cheeks flushed, eyes hazy, and my red hair is a complete mess.

I look like I’ve been up to something naughty—which, of course, I have.

When I spot my purse, I drag it closer, unzipping it to make sure I’m not missing anything. My eyes land on a pen.

Part of me wants to run from this bathroom and never, ever see Robbie again. I’m embarrassed by how easily I gave in to him, mortified by how vulnerable he made me in such a short amount of time.

The other part of me wants to give him my number and let him kiss me whenever he pleases.

Which is so unlike me.

What has gotten into me? Liquor.

That’s it—it has to be the booze. I’m not a big drinker, and tonight I had already slung back three shots before Robbie even stepped foot in the bar. It’s the reason I danced, the reason I talked to so many guys, the only thing that could make me lose my inhibitions the way I have.

Alcohol makes me brave.

And stupid.

Before I can let anything else enter my mind, I do something I’d never do in a million years.

I write my number on a paper towel, thrust it into his hand, and run.

Two

Robbie

This is the fourth morning in a row I’ve woken up with my balls aching, and I’m getting damn sick of it.

It’s all because of her.

Monty.

I spotted her from across the room, an easy feat with her bright red hair, and I had to draw closer. Now, gingers have never been my thing. I’ve always gone for girls with dark hair and big tits and even bigger asses. I have a type, and Monty is not it.

Yet I couldn’t stop my feet from dragging me closer.

From a distance, she was cute. Up close? Beautiful.

Her porcelain skin was dotted with freckles. Eyes were wide with wonder, bright with intoxication, and green as the sea.

Then my gaze traveled south, and I wanted to laugh. She didn’t belong in Lola’s. Her place was somewhere comfortable, like the library or some shit, not a dive bar.

She was too…untouched for that.

I knew I wasn’t any good for her, but that didn’t stop me from hitting on her. We clicked at once, keeping the conversation light and fun. Only names were shared, nothing else.

“I’m going to say something very forward, and you’ll have to excuse me for this—it’s the alcohol talking.”

She sipped from the straw sticking out of the bright blue concoction she was drinking and didn’t wait for me to respond.

“You have the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I want to kiss them.”

I grabbed her hand and led her back to the women’s bathroom, knowing the men’s was a disaster, and lifted her onto the countertop.

“You wanna kiss me?” She nodded. “Then kiss me, Monty.”

Holy fuck did she kiss me.

I was surprised when she let me touch her, and even more shocked when she ran out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there with a raging hard-on.

I glance to the paper towel sitting on my bedside table.

It’s the same one she shoved into my hand, the one that has her number hurriedly scrawled across it.

I haven’t done anything with it. Based on her quick departure, I’m not sure I should, though this multiple-day bout of blue balls is telling me something different.

I can’t stop thinking about her, can’t get the image of her—head thrown back, long hair a crumpled mess, coming apart on my fingers—out of my head.

My dick twitches at the thought, and I reach under my sheet to adjust myself.

Think about something else, Robbie. Anything else.

The last thing I need is—

“Daaaaaaaad!”

That.

That’s the last thing I need right now.

My seven-year-old son bursts through my door and I quickly throw a pillow over my junk.

“Dude, what’d I tell you about knocking?”

His shoulders slump. “Oh crudders. I forgot.”

He backs out of the room and shuts the door. It’s not even three seconds later when I hear his knuckles rapping against the door.

“Who is it?” I say, playing his smartass game right back.

“Xavie. Your son. I’m hungry.”

“Come in.”

He throws the door open once again and beelines for my bed, crawling up into the heap of blankets I threw off in the middle of the night and making himself comfortable.

“I want food.”

I roll to my side and stare at my mini-me. Some days it still amazes me that I’m a father. Me.

I didn’t plan on that happening until a lot later in life, a good ten to twelve years from now when I was ready to settle down—not at nineteen before I was even legally able to drink, before I’d hit that decade of my life that was supposed to be reserved for partying and fun, not changing diapers and three AM wake-ups.

I guess that’s what happens when you decide to throw caution to the wind and not wrap your dick up. You get girls pregnant and then your entire life changes in a flash.

I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t go back in time and change things, do them differently, be smart, because I would. I know many others who’ve found themselves in my same situation would too, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love Xavier—or Xavie, as I like to call him—with my whole heart. He’s my everything and I’m thankful he came into my life, no matter how unplanned he was.

“Oh, you want to eat?” He nods. “No one ever said I had to feed you.”

He furrows his brows. “Toys, love, and food—those are things dads give their kids.”

I chuckle. “Is that so?”

“Yep. Momma said so.”

“Did she throw the toys in there or did you?”

He grins and shrugs before scurrying off my bed. “She did. Now come on—I’m not getting any younger.”

Xavie runs out of the room, his curly hair bouncing the entire way.

I pull myself up and hit the bathroom. I kick away the toys lining the tile, reminding myself to have Xavie clean his mess before he has to go to his mom’s later tonight.

“Are you coming?”

I give my dick a good shake and wash my hands while trying not to let out a weary sigh.

If anyone in the history of ever said kids aren’t exhausting, they’re a damn liar.

Xavie is the most exhausting thing to ever happen to me. He’s needy, he’s pushy, and he can be so annoying.

But he’s mine, and I’d die for the kid.

“Hold your horses,” I tell him as I dry my hands.

“I can’t. They’re out of control!”

I amble through our small apartment and head into the kitchen, where I find him already sitting at the counter, ready to eat.

“Whatcha want, Xavie?”

“Waffles…bacon…sausage…biscuits and gravy. Pancakes too!”

I lift a brow, and he giggles.

“Okay, okay. Just waffles.”

“With peanut butter and strawberries on top?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Please.”

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