Page 52 of Trouble from Abroad
“Nothing in you feels old, Pres.” I whisper into the dark, my ass moving slowly in circles, then up and down, as if I need further evidence that I’m not dreaming. He hisses, and I clench at the sound. “And nothing I’m feeling right now feels wrong.”
“Do you really want to know what’s in it for me, Miss Thorne?” His hands land on my hips and pull me harder to him, locking me there. “I get to feel like a man again. It doesn’t have to be complicated. But it would be real. And right now, that’s more than I’ve had in years.” His fingers dig deeper and my breath falters. “You think this is just about teaching you? No, Mia. It’s about reminding myself I’m still worth touching.” Preston presses his palm to mystomach, under my top, feeling my pebbled skin. I’m so lost in the moment, I forget to suck it in.
“Don’t pay a stranger to touch you when I’d give anything for the chance.”
The room is so still, so charged, I could count the beats of my heart. Except I can’t count that fast.
“I can help you. You want a tutor? I’m right here.” He leans in, brushing his lips along one slippery shoulder, barely grazing. “You want to be touched? To feel confident in bed? Same offer applies.”
Please, legs, don’t fail me now.
“What you’re… suggesting.” I inhale. “Takes us way past inappropriate massages.”
“And yet, I’m still offering. But first, take a seat, Miss Thorne. There’s more.”
More?The timing is very convenient, because my legs do fail me then.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
mia
I don’t havetime to recover. Or think about the implications of his offer. Once I’m seated on the floor, Preston’s back at the couch, legs trapping me in place again.
“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.
