Page 202 of Trouble from Abroad
“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.
“You done with your book?” I swerve to a different topic.
She nibbles her lip. “Oh, I stopped reading a while ago.Found something more useful to do. Started a new project for you.”
The smile she gives me is bright enough to glow. It does something to my chest. I think I’ve started a new project too. Deciphering Mia.
She looks happiest when she’s helping, fixing. And I think it isn’t just about the task. It’s who she is. She doesn’t just want to serve—she wants it to matter. To leave something better than she found it.
And, fuck, that’s humbling. And terrifying.
What happens when she’s done? Will she pack and leave? When this house, my kid and my chaos are no longer hers to straighten out? I know the answer, but box that one for later anyway.
“Do you ever rest? Take a moment for yourself?”
“Dr. Jett, I’m on the clock.”
“Lily’s at school. You’re off. She’ll be there until six. She has two after-school clubs this afternoon.”
She tilts her head, eyes teasing. “Tell me something. Have you had memory issues for a long time, or is this a new thing?”
“What?”
She leans in, full of mischief. “I’ve told you—multiple times—that I’m here for the whole family, not just Lily. So either you’re forgetful, or you’re actually as ancient as you act, and your hearing’s going too.”
