What happened to using last names like a professional? Showing the woman some goddamn respect?
“If you ever want to hop in on a session, just say the word. No charge.”
The fuck? I’m paying him. This is my house. I invite people. Not the other way around.
Mia’s brow rise, but she gives the man no answer. I can’t tell if she didn’t appreciate him being so forward or if she’s playing hard to get. Is she enjoying the show this peacock asshole is putting on? Too bad, because I’m about to shut it down.
Her eyes flick to mine, so I stop drilling holes in John’s skull and force a smile at her.
“She’ll think about it,” I answer on her behalf, clapping a firm hand on John’s shoulder and steering him toward the exit. “You know your way out, yeah?”
He stammers out a yes, and I clap his shoulder one last time. Definitely not as hard as I want to.
When I turn back, Mia’s chin hangs low. She mouths my name in mock horror.
“That wasn’t very polite,” she says.
I shrug. “Don’t cancel tomorrow’s guy. You’re right. Let’s see which one is a better fit.”
Her gaze flicks between the floor and me, lips twitching. “Do you think he was calling me fat? Telling me to exercise?”
“What?” I ask, astounded. “Are you crazy? That asshole was hitting on you. How come you didn’t see that?”
“No, he wasn’t,” she says, almost angry.
“Mia, that creep was after a chance to get closer to you. Probably to cop a feel.” Fuck my life, what am I saying? “And where did ‘fat’ come from?” I step closer and struggle to keep my hand from reaching for her. But there’s nothing I can do to stop my eyes from scanning every lush curve I’m not allowed to touch. “Your body is…” Again, my hand reaches for her and I bring it back, rubbing my face with it this time, giving it something else to do.
It’s no help. It gives me neither pause nor clarity. I keep saying things I have no business telling my nanny. “Your body is every sane man’s dream. It fills hands. Even better, itspillsfrom them.” I let out a measured breath—but my words come out unleashed. “I bet it’s so soft. I wonder how it would ripple from… contact.”
When did she get closer? And when did my fingers start tracing her hip? “I don’t want to feel bone. I want to feel flesh. I want to hold, grab, leave marks.” And Jesus fuck, when did I steer the conversation from “every man” to “I”?
Her breathing gets heavier, and I lick my lips, hoping to taste it. Taste something, anything of her. I find her eyes and end this madness before I close the small distance between us.
“I wish you could see yourself the wayIsee you.” I lift her chin with one finger, and what I find in her eyes makes the little control I have left nearly snap. “You’re fucking perfect, Mia.” The softest sound slips out of her, and I make myself step back—hands at my sides, curling into fists—because I’m too close to a bad decision. One I want. One I don’t get to take. Not like this. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I need a shower. A fucking cold one.”
Upstairs, I strip, letting my damp clothes fall into a heap on the floor. I crank the water to scalding and step into the steam, trying to let the heat erase the tension she creates. I let the pressure pound into my shoulders until the sting numbs.
Eventually, it stops helping, so I sniff her damn shampoo and jerk off.
I brace a hand against the wall and drift into another dimension. One where she’s kneeling in front of me, lips parted, so close I feel her hot breath against my skin. Then she takes me in—slow, lips wet, and so fucking perfect. Her hair spills over her shoulders, dark curls I fist in one hand, pulling her closer until she gags and swallows around me.
My hand works faster. A few more strokes and I’m groaning her name through gritted teeth, picturing her playing with her full tits while I come down her throat.
I’m painting the tiles in her honor again.
I come twice more before I deem it safe enough to be in the same room as Mia without jumping her.
Afterward, I scrub the tiles, rinse my conscience, then towel off. After changing into fresh joggers and a tee, I run my hands through my damp hair and pad downstairs barefoot.
My skin still feels too tight. Maybe it’s remembering the hot water, maybe it’s aching for her.
When I come down, she’s perched on the counter, one knee bouncing, hair twisted up with a pen, Kindle down and laptop open.
Her fingers fly across the keys, fast and purposeful, eyes locked on the screen. I’m walking into the eye of the storm. Voluntarily.
“Well, someone’s looking refreshed,” Mia declares as she looks up from her laptop when she spots me.
Oh, Mia. If you only knew.
