Page 227 of Trouble from Abroad
“What?”
He’s going to have to spell it out, because my brain clocked out the moment I felt his cock harden against me. His arm is a steel bar behind me, pinning me to his chest, while his other hand alternates between stroking my scalp and grazing my skin with his fingertips, detonating goosebumps.
“I need to kiss you.”
He doesn’t say want. He says need. And I believe him. I’ve been played a lot. There’s no part of me that feels that way with Preston. I believe every syllable he gives me. It's dangerous territory, but I do. It makes me feel braver. Wanted. Whole.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Permission,” he murmurs into my ear, then nips the lobe. “Say you want it too.” He sucks it into his mouth, and I nearly combust.
“Doctor, I want you to use, train, and possibly ruin my entire body. I think my mouth is a solid place to start. Kiss me.”
“You won’t be needing lessons in dirty talk, will you, Miss Thorne?”
Oh, if only he knew… This is all him. I’ve never felt braver. Never felt safer. I’ve never spoken like this before, and God, Ilovethis version of myself. The one who says what she wants. The one whoknowswhat she wants.
And yes, I absolutely want dirty talk lessons. More than that, I want to hear every depraved thing this man can say. I want him to show me how filthy he can be—and find out just what it does to me.
“We’ll get there when we get there,” I tell him, already breathless. “Now shut up and put that smart mouth to work, Dr. Jett.”
He does.
It starts rough, desperate. All the tension from the day erupts between our mouths, but somehow, it’s never messy. Never out of sync. We fit from the first press of lips, a perfect collision of want and rhythm. Tongues tangle in sync, as if we’ve done this a hundred times in another life. The kiss sears and soothes at once, a paradox I want to drown in.
I want more. I want everything. I want hungry, I want tender. I want ruined and worshipped in equal measure.
And somehow, he delivers it all.
He gets me there, while my hands slip from his hair, greedy to explore the rest of him—shoulders, arms, back—pulling him closer, fusing us together.
I decide then and there that I’ve never been kissed before.
Not really. Not like this.
Every awkward, slobbery, mismatched clash of mouths I’ve endured? They don’t count. They don’t deserve to exist in the same category. All unworthy of being called kisses.
Whatever this is—this heat, this precision, this dizzying give and take—makes everything before it insignificant.
I’m humping the man now, one leg hooked around his waist.
I need him to stop before I embarrass myself. I will never, in a million years, let him.
The longer he kisses me, the faster I lose my capacity to think straight. Preston threads his fingers deeper through my hair, tilting my head as his mouth drifts to my neck. “You don’t need lessons in kissing,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my throat. “So, tell me”—he tightens his grip, just enough to steal a breath from my lungs—“what do you need help with, Miss Thorne?”
I’m grinning like an idiot, trying to pretend the best kiss of my entire existence didn’t just melt my brain. Forming a sentence now is like asking noodles to do calculus.
“I wrote a…”
His tongue traces back up my neck, slow and wet, followed by the scrape of teeth. My train of thought disintegrates on impact. He finds the spot beneath my ear and claims it, licking, biting, sucking, until the word I was reaching for evaporates.
I moan instead. Because language has failed me, as it does. My body is the only one doing any talking now.
Taking mercy on my dying vocabulary, Preston finishes the sentence for me. “You wrote a list, didn’t you?” His palm slides from my waist to my ass—grabbing a scandalous amount in those big hands of his, with those skillful surgeon’s fingers I should absolutely not be fantasizing about. He grinds his cock against my pussy through our thin layers of fabric, making me gasp, then moan.
There’ll be no coherent sentences from me tonight. Only curses.
If I speak, it’ll be in tongues.
