Texting Box Set: The Complete Series

by Teagan Hunter

  The stranger chuckles. “Didn’t plan on it, Monty.”

  I giggle when he says my name, partially because I’m a little tipsy, and partially because it reminds me of when he first said it.

  “Hey, I’m Monty.”

  “Hi Monty. Wanna see my python?”

  He uttered the words with a cocky grin, and I was a goner.

  In my defense, that was the best pickup line out of all the guys tonight, and since I’m determined to enjoy myself since starting fresh in a new town, here I am: perched on the bathroom counter at a dive bar named Lola’s with a guy I only just met.

  He’s a new adventure, and I’m enjoying the exploration.

  His touch is gentle, yet firm in the best of ways. Large hands grasp my waist, holding tight enough for him to leave red marks but not bruise. It’s sexy, makes me feel safe, warm, alive.

  Or that could be his lips roaming over my jaw. His stubble rakes over my skin, and I live for this moment.

  I’ll be the first to admit this isn’t me. I’m not this girl. I don’t make out with strangers. Heck, I don’t even pick up guys in bars. I’m your average Mary Jane, the girl next door.

  I know it and I own it.

  I don’t have a single come hither bone in my body, but there was something about the way this man’s eyes slid over me that made me feel worthy of his kisses.

  Or it’s the booze talking.

  Yeah, it could be the booze.

  His lips travel down the side of my neck and I lean into him, enjoying the contact more than I probably should. The kisses are slow and wet and perfect. He runs a hand up my back and into my hair, wrapping it around his fingers and pulling lightly until my head is tilted just where he wants it.

  He runs his nose along the column of my neck, and I’m so stupid over this, thinking it’s the hottest thing ever.

  “You smell like beer and sweat and flowers.” A soft kiss. “Why flowers?” he mutters.

  I don’t answer him.

  I can’t.

  He’s captured my mouth with his again.

  He moves his lips slowly against mine, learning and teasing, seeing what he can get away with, seeing how we fit together.

  The hand that was entwined in my hair is now cupping my face, and the pressure he’s putting on my jaw is…hot. It’s not too much, but it’s not enough either.

  His tongue finds its way inside my mouth and I nearly come apart. Such finesse. Certainty.

  This guy knows how to kiss.

  I mean, I’ve only kissed three guys in my lifetime, but I’m certain he’s the best kisser on earth. With the way he’s setting my skin ablaze, there’s no way there’s anyone better.

  He pulls his mouth from mine and his lips find my jaw again, this time traveling up to that spot just behind my ear.

  I giggle at the contact and he laughs, the vibration against my neck making me squirm.

  “Shut up. It’s been a while.”

  “Uh huh. That’s not the reason you’re reacting the way you are, though,” he argues.

  “You’re right. It’s because I’m super into you because I know you so well.”

  He tsks. “Was that sarcasm I detected? Someone’s got a mouth on her.” His lips meet the shell of my ear. “I like that.”

  I want to push him away and pull him closer all at once.

  Push because this isn’t me. This isn’t who I am. I don’t lash out with sharp words, and I sure as hell don’t make out with strangers in bathrooms.

  Pull because I don’t think kissing could ever get better than this.

  There’s also a little dose of shame.

  “I’m not usually this…forward with guys.”

  He runs a hand over my sweater, pulling at the collar of the crisp white shirt underneath it. “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Are you making fun of me? I’m sitting in the shame corner over here and you’re making fun of me?”

  He withdraws a bit, and I miss the feel of him against me. I curl into myself, trying to regain some semblance of warmth.

  “Shame?”

  His dark brows are slashed together. He stands there, hands settled on either side of me, waiting for me to answer.

  Under the yellow glow of the light overhead, I take a good look at the man who was just firmly planted between my spread legs.

  His caramel skin is covered—and I mean, every single inch, right up to his thick neck—in tattoos, ones I can’t quite discern in the shadows but look beautiful nonetheless.

  There’s delicious stubble lining his strong, angled jaw and plump, rose-colored lips. I can’t make out his eye color clearly, but right now he has that glassy look about him. He’s had a few too many drinks too.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re adults, and we’re enjoying each other’s company—no shame in that.”

  I squirm beneath his scrutiny.

  “Unless you’re not into it…”

  “I am,” I say too quickly.

  Another grin. “Yeah? Then what’s the big deal?”

  I shake my head. “There isn’t one. I’m being dumb.”

  He pushes himself off the counter and it creaks under the shifting weight.

  That’s another thing: he’s huge—like, muscles on muscles kind of huge, the kind that tells me he’s probably hiding a six pack under that tight gray shirt of his.

  The thought overwhelms me because I’ve never seen abs in real life. My fingers itch to touch him, and before I know it, I’m pulling him back between my legs. My hands fan out on his stomach and he shakes his head.

  “What are you doing, Monty?” he whispers, his breath brushing over my lips.

  “Abs.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have abs—I’d guess eight.”

  He hisses when my hands collide with his bare skin, and I love the way it sounds. It’s like he can’t get enough of our contact either.

  I run my fingers over his middle.

  “One…two…”

  His chest begins to move rapidly.

  “Three…four…”

  He reaches out and stills my movements, locking eyes with me. There are so many shadows between us I almost can’t see him.

  And it’s making this encounter all the more enticing.

  “Six. It’s six, Monty.”

  I frown. “You ruined the surprise.”

  He crushes his lips to mine and I gasp at the contact. The movement is so rushed that I slide forward on the counter, my butt now barely hanging on to the edge. I wrap my legs around his waist for more support, and right behind me, following him into the bathroom earlier, it’s the smartest move I’ve made all night.

  His erection brushes against all the right spots, and it feels just like the python he called it.

  “Fuuuuuck.”

  I’ve heard many curse words in my life. I’m not against cursing it’s just never sounded right coming out of my mouth, so it’s not something I do.

  But that word leaving his lips? That didn’t sound like any curse I’ve ever heard. It sounded like a prayer.

  And I’m praying right along with him.

  His hands slide up my bare legs and under the knee-length skirt I’m wearing. I don’t stop him when he reaches my thighs, or when he reaches the edge of my panties.

  I’m too lost to acknowledge that I shouldn’t be doing this with a stranger, too lost to care when he runs a finger along the band lining my thigh, too gone when his knuckles graze my swollen lips.

  He buries his face in my neck as he fingers the hem over and over again. I want to combust every time he brushes against me. He’s unsure if he should press forward or not.

  I’m not.

  “You can touch me, Robbie.”

  Another prayer and one of his fingers dives into my underwear, seeking out my center.

  “You’re so wet,” he whispers before taking my mouth with his again.

  My body heats at his words—or at his kiss. I can’t tell which, but I know I’m not used to hea
ring words like that.

  He adds another finger and I lose all ability to move. He glides his fingers in and out of me, and I gasp in shock when his thumb presses against my clit.

  What the…

  “Do that again.”

  He lets out another throaty laugh at my instruction and obeys, circling his thumb and teasing the bundle of nerves with just the right amount of pressure.

  “Again.”

  He obliges.

  “Don’t stop.”

  He doesn’t, and I ignite.

  There’s no other way to describe it. I unravel beneath him, legs quaking, breath stuttered, eyes rolling into the back of my head.

  I’ve read about this in those magazines my sister reads, heard it’s the most euphoric feeling in the world…and they weren’t wrong.

  I cling to Robbie as I come down from the high, my breathing returning to normal, his fingers still languidly stroking my clit.

  “Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

  “I’m…”

  A pounding against the door yanks me out of the haze and clears my foggy brain in an instant.

  Oh god.

  What have I done? I’m in a public restroom with a stranger! I just let him…let him…do dirty things to me!

  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.

  2

  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 blanke
ts 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.