Page 54 of Trouble from Abroad
My top is ancient, soft from a thousand washes. The neckline dips too low, the fabric clings too close. It’s soft enough to tease, and rough enough to make me ache.
Underneath, I’ve got a nothing little bra. Thin. Useless. Perfect for the occasion. It’s as if my subconscious dressed me for this ‘audition’.
His hands skim the flimsy material, deliberate and slow, like there’s something sacred underneath. Me.
His thumbs graze the tops of my breasts. The straps are down, but he doesn’t go underneath the top. He follows the edges. He lays the promise.
My nipples ache, tight and straining under their confinement. Desperate for the attention he keeps out of reach.
There’s no room for fear. No space for shame. No time for self-doubt. Not when he looks at me like this.
And when I hold his gaze—hungry, focused, absolutely undone—I believe it. I become the woman he sees. I slip into the fantasy he’s built, and I never want to come out.
This man is going to ruin me.
This was a terrible idea.
Or the best one I’ve ever had.
“I need you to talk to me, Mia,” he says, soft and serious.
“Talk?” My head jerks up. “Right now? I’m not actually interviewing you, Preston!”
He chuckles—a deep, filthy rumble—and rubs a lazy circle over one nipple. The sound I make is… not English. Definitely not holy.
“No, baby,” he murmurs. “I need you to tell me. What feels good. What doesn’t. If this is okay. What’s too much. What’s not enough.”
Each sentence is punctuated by a new kind of stroke, where he goes from firmer to lighter, always curious. It’s titty braille for bliss.
“If I’m going to be a good teacher…” he trails off, dragging his nails along the swell of my breast, “I’ve got some learning to do too.”
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
His fingers chart new territory—the generousslope of my waist, the soft dip of my stomach. Every curve, he handles like a privilege. Places I’m too far gone to be self-conscious about right now. Then a pinch on one nipple makes me hiss. It’s heaven. It’s hell. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
He does it again, on the other one. I gasp and arch. Chase his hands without meaning to.
Then he rolls them—gentle, coaxing.
I tip my head back and sideways to moan against his thigh.
He does it harder.
“Y-yes,” I choke out.
It’s not a word. It’s a chant. More follows.
“That’s it, baby,” he groans, voice rough with approval, and my soul considers leaving my body. She doesn’t want to miss a thing.
“I need you to remember something.”Not sure I can, but I don’t interrupt him.“This is for you. You set the pace. You say when. You say where. And you say stop.”
I believe him. Because I can feel it. In every careful touch. In every measured breath. In every second he’s spending learning me—not as a body to take, but a world to explore. A place to worship.
“I want to ask you something. But I don’t want to push you.”
“Try me, Doctor.”
His index finger slips inside my top, tracing the edge of my bra. “Can I see you?”
