Page 166 of Trouble from Abroad
She bends a little further. Every generous inch of her is on full display.
Get out. Get the hell out now.
I know I should be better than this. Thought I was,actually. Turns out I’m just a guy with poor instincts and worse morals. Apparently, soft curves, a big ass, and some bad decisions are all it takes to fry my last working brain cell.
Before I can convince myself to do the right thing, Mia snatches the toiletry off the floor, spins around, and… walks straight into me.
Then she screams bloody murder.
She stumbles back and drops everything. The bags first. The tiny, worthless, sorry excuse for a hand towel next. Mia stands there, completely bare, and I’m a split second away from losing all sense of respect.
My brain misfires, a rusty engine sputtering to life. I lunge forward—bad move—my hands landing on her shoulders. Another bad move. It’s instinctive, automatic, terrible. And then I pull her into my chest to take her body out of my line of sight. One dumber decision after the next.
I’m. On. A. Roll.
“I didn’t see anything,” I blurt. Too loud, too fast, and about as convincing as a toddler swearing they didn’t touch the cookie jar.
Fucking liar. And a pervert. That image is seared onto my retinas, carved into my brain in high-definition. Every luscious curve, every drop of water clinging to her skin… Jesus Christ.
My gaze locks on the wall—the ceiling—anywhere that isn’t her.
“Oh my God! Oh. My. God.OHMYGOD!” She goes higher and shriller by the second, breath hitching so fast she’s about to hyperventilate.
“Mia, please, breathe. Calm down.” She can’t keep stillagainst me—her wet skin slides against my naked chest, a damn slip-and-slide built for sinners. Every squirm’s a delicious but merciless kind of hell. I tighten my grip on her—too firm, too close. My fingers flex and are supposed to let go, but somehow my hands don’t get that last part of the memo.
“How the hell do I calm down?” she shrieks, flailing as though she’s trying to dislodge a spider. “My boss—who probably doesn’t even know my last name yet—just saw me naked!”
“It’s Thorne,” I cut in, louder than I mean to. “And I didn’t see anything.”
Her chest rises sharply against me. Full and soft, the curve of her breasts presses against my ribs. It’s so… unsettling. Yes, let’s go with that.
Her eyes narrow as if I’ve just handed her a steaming plate of bullshit, and she bites out, “You’re a terrible liar.”
Yeah. No argument there.
She wriggles harder, and my eyes roll to the ceiling, but my brain stutters and I can’t form a prayer to ask for help above.
“Just—stop moving,” I grind out, jaw tight. “Please.”
“Oh, I can’t move now?” she shouts, practically windmilling her arms, about to take flight. I barely dodge an elbow to the face.
“Why are you yelling at me?” I match her volume, because apparently, we’re doing this now. And that gives me something to do instead of focusing on how good the softness of her body feels against mine. “And where’s your towel?”
“You said the towel was in the bathroom. It wasn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.” It’s a full-blown shouting match now, and I don’t even know why I’m getting angry. “I left a pile of fresh towelsanda robe in your bedroom.”
“No, you didn’t,” she screeches.
It’s going to be a quiet dinner, since we’ll both lose our voices before this is over.
“Want me to carry your naked ass there and show you?” We’re breathing hard, both of us flushed and furious, and she lowers her arms to reach between us and grab at her breasts in a last-ditch attempt at modesty.
I groan. “For the love of God, Mia. Just. Stop. Moving.”
My runner’s shorts? Paper-thin and absolutely useless right now. Blood has surged south, and my grip on her shoulders falters.
I can tell the exact moment she realizes, or better yet, feels it.
