Page 133 of Trouble from Abroad
“What the hell are you talking about, Preston?” she hisses, breath sharp, hands balling into fists.
“Edging is on your list, baby. Remember?” The peck I lay on her cheek is far too innocent for the timing.
I drop to my knees anyway, tugging her jeans down until they puddle at her ankles. My palms push her thighs as open as they will go, spreading her until she’s bare and shaking under my hands.
“But I will walk out there with your taste on my lips.That much, you don’t get a choice about.” Then I bury my face between her legs.
My tongue strokes slowly from her entrance up to her clit, relishing every drop she made for me. I circle her clit without pressure, barely ghosting over it, watching her twitch with frustration. When she bucks forward, I give her a shallow suck. Enough to make her gasp, far from what she needs to come.
My finger slides inside, finds the swollen ridge of her G-spot, and teases it with the lightest strokes, more taunting than touching. Her hips roll, desperate, chasing more, and that’s when I pull back, my mouth hovering, breath fanning her without giving her what she so desperately wants.
Her whole body riots against restraint. One hand claws at my hair, yanking, trying to force me closer. The other scratches at the door for purchase.
“Please…” she moans, her voice breaking, chest heaving as her head thuds back against the wood. “That’s not what I call fair at all.”
I hold her still, my grip unyielding, drunk on the way she trembles at the edge becauseI’vedecided she stays there. It’s a high unlike anything else—her wildness caged under my control, her surrender straining against her defiance, all of it mine to play with.
I flick my tongue back over her clit, paced teasing laps, then suck just hard enough to draw another ragged cry. My finger strokes her G-spot again, gentle and by the looks of it, infuriating too. I control the rhythm, the depth, and the denial. Every sound she makes pours fuel on the fire in my veins.
Her head falls back, teeth sinking into herbottom lip, another broken noise spilling out of her. She’s wrecked, caught between surrender and rage, her whole body pleading while I keep her hanging. And I smile, drunk on her, on this power, on the fact that she lets me take it.
One more long, obscene lick, drinking all I can. Then another, savoring, branding her on my tongue.
“When I get back out there, Trouble, they’ll come sniffing again. And all they’ll smell is you—your pussy still wet on my tongue. That’s how they’ll know I’m already taken.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
mia
I makeit back into the living room first, legs not entirely steady, and beeline for the drinks table. If I’m going to survive this party—hell, survive him—I need something cold and maybe alcoholic to trick my pulse into slowing. I zero in on the champagne flutes and raise the fullest one. A sip. Two. If I keep sipping, maybe nobody will notice that my entire body’s still vibrating.
And then he walks in.
Preston doesn’t even make it two steps before the hyena pack of single moms swoops in, batting lashes and clawing at his sleeves. He doesn’t bark, doesn’t fake a polite smile or play nice. No. He exhales through his mouth. A bone-deep sigh.
Only it’s not just a sigh. It’sEau de Me.
Mycunt on his breath, my slick on his tongue, misted straight into their hopeful faces.
I choke so violently on my champagne it erupts up my nose. April leaps into action, thumping my back hard enough to knock my lungs loose, while Callie snatches theflute from my hand and replaces it with a water glass, muttering, “Lightweight.”
“You good?” April frowns, concerned.
I wheeze out, “Totally fine.”
Lies. I’m dying. He just crop-dusted the PTA with my pussy.
Across the room, Preston catches my eye. And smirks.
I watch him excuse himself from their entrapment and go upstairs. Callie’s interrogative eyes ping-pong between the two of us, and she asks where he’s disappearing to now.
“Beats me,” I hush out. “Brush his teeth, hopefully?” I mumble to myself. “It’s almost cake time.”
“That makes no sense. You brush your teeth after sugar,” she clips back, and I’d be metaphorically slapping myself for letting my mouth run if I wasn’t too busy grinning like an idiot at the memory of Preston telling me how sweet I taste.
I flee to the bath bomb station before I embarrass myself some more. Wait. Whoever left Liam in charge there? He’s basically coaching a squad of future arsonists, explaining ratios with the seriousness of a boardroom presentation. One kid holds up a bath bomb that’s definitely fizzing more violently than intended, and Liam mutters, “Don’t light any matches near that.”
By the time a boy proudly announces he’s made “unicorn poo TNT,” April swoops in, full bomb squad mode, snatching the fizzing bath bomb from his hand and clearing the table. “Let’s try a different activity, shall we?” she says tightly.
