Page 210 of Trouble from Abroad
“You know what we did wrong, Mia?” His voice is threaded with something heavier than usual.
Ha! So much.This is a trick question, right? Or at least a rhetorical one?
I look over my shoulder but don’t turn fully. My own voice dips to match his. “What?”
“We never interviewed for our jobs.”
I smirk. “Lucky for Lily. You’d never have hired me, would you?” I sit a little straighter, pretending to focus on the TV. “And what do you mean byour?”
I feel the warmth of his chest before I feel his hands.
His fingers land on my shoulders with easy confidence, and the next sweep of his thumbs undoes every last coherent thought of mine. He finds the knots like they’re old friends. Presses into them with practiced care. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just right.
“I just applied for a teaching position,” he says, his tone a depraved blend of irony and seduction. “So I think it’s only fair,” he continues, “that I show you my credentials. Let’s do things right this time around.”
I inhale and forget what to do next.
His thumbs knead, first firm and purposeful, then slower, deeper into the base of my neck. Next, his hands drift lower, gliding down my back, tracing around my ribs, teasing across the front of my top. Each stroke deliberate. Mapping out his intent.
He never goes under the fabric. Doesn’t cross a single technical boundary.
And yet, my body lights up like he flipped a switch.
Every nerve ending hums with tension. His touch. His voice. The unbearable focus behind both. He’s a master indeed.
His fingers skim the sides of my breasts, and my nipples tighten, rock-hard and painful beneath nothing but cotton and lust.
I press my thighs together, desperate for friction. For grounding. For anything.
My eyes flutter shut. I have no idea if the movie’s still playing. All I hear is his breath behind me, the blood rushing in my ears, and the soft scrape of his hands writing indecent promises across my skin.
Is it too soon to scream “Hired!”?
It is. It so is. I’d cut my own tongue out with a Play-Doh knife before interrupting this so-called audition.
Can you die from sensory overload? Will I be the first case on record?
Please, God, don’t let me die a sexually unsatisfied woman. That would be the worst way to go. Except… this? This feels too good to be the worst way to depart. I don’t know a thing anymore. I’ve lost track of my own name.
And then—his mouth. Right at my ear.
“Mia.”
My name. That’s all it takes. That’s how tight he’s got me wound up.
A full-body jolt runs through me. I don’t fight it. I reverberate.
The sound of him shoots straight to my center. It sparks a chain reaction I feel everywhere. I’ve never felt like this. Never responded like that.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
I can’t speak. Can’t think.
He waits. Then softens. “You okay?”
I nod. Aggressively.
His chuckle is low and molten. It pools beneath my skin. Actually, the pooling’s happening somewhere else entirely.
