Page 8 of Trouble from Abroad
All right. Time for a strategic retreat. Or, as I’ll call it later, The Great Naked Escape.
Odds are, if he didn’t hear me scream his name, he won’t catch my naked wet butt making a run for it.
I grab thesmallesthand towel in world history—praying to every higher power that it’s a freshly changed one—and dry whatever I can. Then I press it to my chest, as my chosen private part to hide, and gather my things like my life depends on them. Unfortunately, wet skin coated in body oil equals immediate betrayal. On my third step into the corridor, my shampoo slips from my hold.
Mia,thisis how you die. Of a fall, or shame, still to be determined.
CHAPTER FOUR
preston
I should leave.
My feet should turn, take the steps back down—I should do anything except stand here. But somehow, I can’t seem to move.
The music blaring in my headphones barely registers now; it’s morphed into static buzzing in the background as I watch her.
I’m standing there, sweaty, feeling incredibly exposed, and wearing only my gym shorts.
Mia bends, chasing after a bottle that’s rolled across the floor. Her back arches, hips tipping up just enough to make my mouth go dry. That ass. So lush and full. God, it’s devastatingly perfect.
Her thighs are thick and pressed together, hiding a secret I’d sell my soul to hear—and see.
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.
