Page 48 of Trouble from Abroad
No progress will be made here. Just my slow, delicious descent into horny madness.
“I’m going to finish this in the kitchen. Stretch my back a little,” I mutter, already standing.
“Oh, fuck, it’s almost three,” he says, placing his laptop onto the couch and beating me to the kitchen. “Come, let me feed you.”
Perfect. He doesn’t see my knees buckle.
Feed you. Not make you lunch. Not even cook for you.
Feed you.
So yeah. When he said that, it was like smut to my ears.
Actually, when he said ‘come’, I probably could have.
“Hmmm. Thanks,” I manage. I’m about to set my laptop on the counter when it gifts me a way out. “I’m gonna go plug this in upstairs. Be right back to help.”
“You don’t need to hel?—”
“Oh, shut up already,” I call from halfway up the stairs, fleeing the scene. His full-blown laughter follows me, rich and gruff and so melodic it nearly drags me back down just to hear it better.
The sound skims over my skin in all the right places. I climb the rest of the steps, wondering if his hands could do the same.
* * *
I splash cold water on my face multiple times, get a hold of my out of bounds imagination, and wait a good fifteen minutes for the flush of an impending orgasm to fade from my cheeks. Only then meet him in the kitchen.
He’s wiping his hands on a linen towel, short sleeves unnecessarily pushed up, arms flexing with every move. His grin is stupid-hot, no frown in sight. Damn straight he’ll be working out every day.
Go, endorphins. Show the man what you can do.
He gestures toward the counter, where a lunch setup waits with a lot more flair than a weekday lunch between a nanny and her boss should have. Chargers, fine china, crystal glasses, and a small bouquet of handpickedflowers I recognize from his back garden, trimmed to uneven perfection. Wow. He’s done a lot in a short amount of time.
I lean in to inhale their fresh green scent. It’s clean and alive. Just like he makes me feel.Well, minus the clean.
Oh. This is thoughtful.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice lower than it should be.
I can handle his grumpiness all day, but the cute? Cute boss is a curveball I didn’t see coming, and my only defense is candor.
Preston doesn’t just smile back. He lights up. Unfiltered—all teeth and crinkled eyes. It knocks the air from my lungs. Is he wooing me? Because I’m so fucking wooed right now.
“You’re welcome,” he says, voice lower too, maybe afraid of breaking the spell.
Each stolen glance skims over me. A brush of warmth across my skin. His gaze lingers on my mouth. Mine drifts to the vein on his forearm that flexes when he lifts a pan or rips the bag of the next ingredient.
I don’t have that much experience with sex. I doubt he has much in flirtation.
But this soft-simmer thing? It feels really nice.
“Just enjoy your meal and fight those instincts to help out,” he says, nudging a glass filled with lemonade toward me. “Let someone take care of you for once.”
Oh. He has no idea how much that hit home.
He says it so easily, so gently—as if care is a given, not something I have to earn. It hits somewhere deep, dark, unlit. It sinks into a part of me I keep locked away.
My throat’s too tight with memories to argue. So I stay seated.
