Page 212 of Trouble from Abroad
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?”
In my mind, I don’t hesitate. But in real-time? I need to catch mybreath first. “Yes.”
“Put your hands behind my knees and keep them there.”
My arms obey before my brain catches up, and they cling there for dear life. He pushes everything that covers me down. It’s the best improvised corset ever, lifting my breasts like an offering, framed and full, for him.
Preston loses his composure for the first time tonight. His legs shift wider, his hips tip forward, drawn like he can’t help himself. The hissed “fuck” that follows hits me as the most obscene, most genuine compliment of my life.
He tries to top it anyway. “You’re so gorgeous, Mia. Delectable.”
I’m humping air, and I couldn't care less how desperate I look. And since I’m past humiliating myself, I beg, “Touch me. Please, Doc.”
Does he? Why, when he can torture me more instead?
“Open your mouth,” is his next command.
It startles my eyes open. I wasn’t expecting that. But at this point, I’m conditioned to follow his every lead. I want it all. What he’s giving, what he’s holding back. I’ll beg for both. He’s primed my body for it.
“Stick your tongue out for me.”
I do. He slides two fingers past my lips, and I suck them on instinct.
He gives me a wicked smile. The dirtiest, most delighted thing I’ve ever seen painted on someone’s face. My professor seems pleased he didn’t have to tell me to do that.
