Page 47 of Trouble from Abroad
“I’ve been flat, excuse my British, apartmenthunting for Liam and April, and a realtor came back with a private opening to see a penthouse I know Liam will love, and I’m hoping April will too. Liam asked me to visit the place with them. That’d mean I’d miss Lily’s drop-off tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Let’s make you a set of keys before we pick Lily up today.”
She nods, but there’s a flicker of surprise like she didn’t expect it to be that easy.
Maybe that’s on me. Maybe I’ve been too rigid. Too closed off. Too focused on surviving the day-to-day to realize how much smoother everything’s become since she got here. How much difference it makes when you let someone in.
No. Not someone.Her.
Mia leans back slightly in her seat, spinning her pen between her fingers. Her eyes dart back to the screen—I’m sure already thinking about what’s next, what else needs fixing.
I watch her. Watch her be this steady, beautiful storm that’s taken over my house in a matter of days.Client. That word still stings. She said it so easily, reminding me that this is temporary.
Soon she’ll take on another project. Another job. More suited to her impressive skills. I watch her work. And wonder how long I’ve got before she leaves everything better than she found it—and walks away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
mia
For the restof the afternoon, the doctor works on his assignment, and I pretend to get back to mine. The personal one I started before boarding the plane here. At first, we sit on opposite ends of the sofa at a civilized distance. But for the life of me, I can’t focus on what I’m doing with Preston in the vicinity.Gray joggers? Really?
I’ve never suffered from too much inspiration before—didn’t even know that was a thing—yet here we are. And there he is, sitting directly across from me, looking criminal in daylight.
We’re facing each other, both braced on the sofa arms. His brows furrow, as usual, a total contrast to his sprawled-out pose. One leg’s bent and down, propping up the laptop where he’s supposedly researching tiles or lighting fixtures or whatever. The other leg’s bent too, but up, knee hooked over a cushion like he owns the entire room.
He does, but that’s entirely beside the point.
If I’ve ever said anything negative about manspreading, I take it all back. Public apology pending.
If I stay here one more second, staring at this laid-back version of the doctor while populating the brief for the escort, debating whether I want to be an expert on giving or receiving oral first, I’m bound to leave a stain on this furniture that no amount of ‘we can never speak of this again’ could shelve.
I had been cataloging foreplay for days before my arrival, and now I’m trying to organize it all in escalating order until the man I hire finally fucks me—hopefully—as well as he does in my dreams.
I’ve got a tab open with every Kama Sutra position I want to try—arranged by flexibility, mattress support, and pelvic tilt. Another has an article on optimal clitoral angles. Enlightening. There was so much I didn’t know.
Then there’s the kink quiz results, cross-referenced across three sites.
Spoilers: I might have a praise kink. A thing for veiny hands and forearms. Maybe even a soft spot for dominant energy. Not a Dom per se, just that commanding edge. Another tab’s open to a Reddit thread titled ‘Soft Dom vs. Service Top—Who Wins?’
I still haven’t made up my mind, and the comment section gave me way too much food for thought.
I’ve got massage oil comparisons, a water versus silicone-based lube breakdown, and a UK-to-US lingerie size converter. For the record, the bras in my cart are from the “barely there” collection. I even made two playlists: ‘Slow Burn’ and ‘Wall Banging’. For mood calibration.
And yes, there’s a discreet little folder hiding the file ‘older-bloke-takes-control.mp4’, becauseI am a scholar and a slut, and the duality is important. I contain multitudes.
I’m clinically incapable of half-assing a project. I’m the reasonoverpreparedis in the dictionary.
Then I glance up.
Big mistake.
Preston is grinning at something on his screen, lips curled in a way that fries the last functioning brain cell I had left. He must’ve found something good. I wouldn’t know, because I’m too busy managing the sudden flutter of butterflies taking flight in my stomach and the desperate clench between my thighs at the sight of his mouth twitching up.
This man has reduced me to a hormone container.
A voice rings inside my head, telling me how well-suited the man in front of me is for the job. At first, I think it’s Callie’s voice. But no, it’s mine.
It’s my mind imagining Preston twisting me like a pretzel. It’s me who’s pasting his face onto every Kama Sutra illustration and searching for videos of older men. I retie my ponytail, tighter this time. The pause makes me notice my fever-warm and damp skin. Some places more than others. I need to stop this. Now.
