“Yes. Number ten. But no, that’s not the aim.” I blink, trying to refocus. “I ramble when I’m nervous.”
His hand smooths over my ass, where he supposedly just punished, fingers tracing, lingering there. Yeah, he definitely likes that part of me.
“Okay,” I whisper, spine straightening. “Here goes my pride.”
I square my shoulders. Settle in. And pretend this is a pitch presentation for the dirtiest client of my life. I fucking ace presentations.
“Number one: Give a proper hand job. No limp, awkward fiddling. Two hands? Rhythm. Grip. Confidence. Maybe even eye contact. (To be confirmed, could be terrifying.)” Fucking hell, I can’t help it. I read every damn word out loud, parentheses and all. I decide to embrace this disaster, throwing in live commentary. “Hey, not that terrifying, after all.”
“Number two: Learn how to deep throat. Or at least not choke as if I’m being waterboarded by dick. Gag reflex training. Is that a thing? Can I search it without getting flagged?”
He’s smiling back at me, but judging by the tent in his towel, this isn’t going as badly as I feared.
“That’s one hell of a challenge with what you’re packing, but I’m up for it, if you’re willing to help.”
“So fucking willing, baby.” His hands glide up and down my sides, smooth enough that the towel stays exactly where it is.
“Number three.” I’m quite sure all my teeth are on display when I read this one. “Figure out what to do withballs. Kiss them? Suck them? Cup them reverently as a prayer offering? Honestly, open to instruction.”
Preston drops his head into my lap to muffle his laughter. He fails spectacularly. When he looks up, eyes shining, he says, “Mia, your brain never ceases to amaze me. And you sayIhave a way with words.” He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and adds, “You… prayed and revered them perfectly today, but kissing and sucking are also great. We’ll get on that another day.”
I wiggle my legs, excitement bubbling up at the promise.
“Can’t wait. Number four,” I announce with poise. “Anal.” I pause, eyes wide, and look straight at Preston to make sure he understands the gravity of the next word. I enunciate with the drama of a woman facing death. “Eventually. Like… train for it. Work up to it. Step by step. Lube. Finger, singular. Plug. Bigger plug.Theplug. Eventually, take him there without screaming or splitting in two.”
“I’m dying to see the plug lineup. I bet you’ve already chosen them all. Maybe even named them.” He’s smirking, eyes wicked, waiting for my response. I say nothing, because he’s kiddingandright. “You did,” he says, serious and final. “Buy them. I’ll help you stretch and I’ll praise you through every single size.”
This version of Preston—flirty, teasing, slightly unhinged—feels light-years from the one who took me in last week, with a jaw clenched tight enough to chip stone.
“They’re all sitting in my shopping cart as we speak.”
“Check out before you go to sleep tonight. Use the card I gave you.”
“I thought that was for groceries. Household essentials. Boring adult stuff.”
“Consider this a Preston-and-Mia essential. Top priority.” He lowers the paper from my hand and kisses me so softly I melt on contact.
“Keep kissing me like that, and I’ll throw this list out of the window.”
He pulls back, fast as lightning.
“Oh no, you won’t. Number five?”
I look at him, committed to my filthy syllabus. “Number five: Dirty talk that doesn’t sound like a badly translated IKEA manual.”
He frowns, looking a little insulted. “You did not write that down.”
I frown back, completely lost. “What are you talking about?”
“Mia, you dirty talk like a pro. Are phone sex operators still a thing? You could run their training sessions.”
Okay, Grandpa. I’ll let that one slide.“Really?”
“I’ve been wondering where you learned to talk like that.”
“It’s a bit embarrassing.”
“It’shot. I don’t need your exes’ resumes, but nothing about you could ever be embarrassing. Tell me.”
