Chapter Twenty-Two
mia
For the rest of the afternoon, the doctor works on his assignment, and I pretend to get back to mine.
The personal one I started before boarding the plane here.
At first, we sit on opposite ends of the sofa at a civilized distance.
But for the life of me, I can’t focus on what I’m doing with Preston in the vicinity. Gray joggers? Really?
I’ve never suffered from too much inspiration before—didn’t even know that was a thing—yet here we are. And there he is, sitting directly across from me, looking criminal in daylight.
We’re facing each other, both braced on the sofa arms. His brows furrow, as usual, a total contrast to his sprawled-out pose.
One leg’s bent and down, propping up the laptop where he’s supposedly researching tiles or lighting fixtures or whatever.
The other leg’s bent too, but up, knee hooked over a cushion like he owns the entire room.
He does, but that’s entirely beside the point.
If I’ve ever said anything negative about manspreading, I take it all back. Public apology pending.
If I stay here one more second, staring at this laid-back version of the doctor while populating the brief for the escort, debating whether I want to be an expert on giving or receiving oral first, I’m bound to leave a stain on this furniture that no amount of ‘we can never speak of this again’ could shelve.
I had been cataloging foreplay for days before my arrival, and now I’m trying to organize it all in escalating order until the man I hire finally fucks me—hopefully—as well as he does in my dreams.
I’ve got a tab open with every Kama Sutra position I want to try—arranged by flexibility, mattress support, and pelvic tilt. Another has an article on optimal clitoral angles. Enlightening. There was so much I didn’t know.
Then there’s the kink quiz results, cross-referenced across three sites.
Spoilers: I might have a praise kink. A thing for veiny hands and forearms. Maybe even a soft spot for dominant energy. Not a Dom per se, just that commanding edge. Another tab’s open to a Reddit thread titled ‘Soft Dom vs. Service Top—Who Wins?’
I still haven’t made up my mind, and the comment section gave me way too much food for thought.
I’ve got massage oil comparisons, a water versus silicone-based lube breakdown, and a UK-to-US lingerie size converter. For the record, the bras in my cart are from the “barely there” collection. I even made two playlists: ‘Slow Burn’ and ‘Wall Banging’. For mood calibration.
And yes, there’s a discreet little folder hiding the file ‘older-bloke-takes-control.mp4’, because I am a scholar and a slut, and the duality is important. I contain multitudes.
I’m clinically incapable of half-assing a project. I’m the reason overprepared is in the dictionary.
Then I glance up.
Big mistake.
Preston is grinning at something on his screen, lips curled in a way that fries the last functioning brain cell I had left.
He must’ve found something good. I wouldn’t know, because I’m too busy managing the sudden flutter of butterflies taking flight in my stomach and the desperate clench between my thighs at the sight of his mouth twitching up.
This man has reduced me to a hormone container.
A voice rings inside my head, telling me how well-suited the man in front of me is for the job. At first, I think it’s Callie’s voice. But no, it’s mine.
It’s my mind imagining Preston twisting me like a pretzel.
It’s me who’s pasting his face onto every Kama Sutra illustration and searching for videos of older men.
I retie my ponytail, tighter this time. The pause makes me notice my fever-warm and damp skin.
Some places more than others. I need to stop this. Now.
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 handpicked flowers 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.
Let it sink.
Let it sting in the way only something kind and unfamiliar can.
When I find my voice again, I ask, “What are you making? It smells… divine.”
“It’s leftovers, but I made it myself. Beef bourguignon. Found some in the freezer.”
He lifts the lid, gives it another stir, and closes it again.
“The rice is fresh, though,” he adds, peeking into another pot.
“Well, by the smell of it, it’s going to be amazing.” I tug the napkin from under my cutlery, smoothing it over my lap, grounding myself to something.
He shoots me a smile, pride brightening it.
Preston plants his hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders going taut. He leans closer, tilting his head.
“Miss Thorne, you haven’t even tasted it yet,” he says, smooth as caramel. “You can’t decide whether something will be good for you before you give it a try.”
My pulse trips over itself. Heat skates down my spine and settles low in my belly, sudden and a bit humiliating. There is absolutely no reason a man offering me lunch should sound like he’s talking about ruining me on a kitchen counter, and yet here we are.
It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about food anymore. Or maybe that’s just my horny little imagination doing laps again. Either way, the way his voice dropped when he said it felt like foreplay in verbal disguise.
I gulp in air and nod, not trusting myself to say anything intelligible.
Preston plates up for me and we eat in silence propped against the island.
It feels more intimate than sitting at the table.
Cozy enough that your knees brush if we’re not careful.
His ankle bumps mine once. Oops. Then again.
Oh. And now I hate how fast my heart decides that second touch means something.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon unfolds gently. Preston disappears upstairs with a new mission after speaking to the interior designer. Something about matching wood samples and measuring ceiling beams.
I give myself an hour of actual work: emails, two checklist revisions, and a call with April to confirm tomorrow’s viewing. Then it’s time to switch gears.
We pick Lily up, and she’s full of beans, running towards her dad with paint-stained fingers and a tote bag overflowing with glittered crafts. Preston, who is waiting for her in front of the car, crouches to her level and kisses every inch of her pretty face.
Back home, he sits with her on the floor, treating every scribbled picture she pulls from her bag like it belongs in the Louvre. I watch from the kitchen island, pretending not to melt into the marble.
She holds up a popsicle-stick crown bedazzled enough to rival the Queen of England’s tiara collection, then turns to me. “Can we have a picnic in the TV room?”
“Only if you let me go full Pinterest on it,” I tell Preston, already planning for throw pillows and fairy lights.
Preston groans behind her. “This is going to be a mistake.”
I turn to Lily, both arms in the air. “That’s a yes, Lils.”
She helps me spread a thick quilt across the room’s rug, and I pile three more blankets nearby.
Her favorite plushies join us, along with nearly every cushion and pillow in the house.
In the kitchen, I stack two trays with cheese, crackers, grapes, mini quiches I found in the freezer, and apple slices with peanut butter.
Lily chooses the movie—one of her comfort rewatches, apparently—and when the lights dim, the whole room glows gold.
We eat on the floor. Preston complains about how stiff his back will be tomorrow, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he pulls a blanket over Lily, then grabs another and drapes it around my shoulders.
Eventually, Lily curls up in his lap, breath evening out into soft little snores. Leave it to her to make snoring cute.
“I’m taking her to bed,” he murmurs, standing in one smooth motion with her tucked in his arms.
“You mind if I finish it? I actually love this movie. I’ll clean up later.”
He doesn’t answer, just nods once and moves silently up the stairs.
I expect him to stay there. Tuck her in. Call it a night himself.
But he comes back, all stealth and silent. And when he sits on the couch behind me, I know I’m not watching the film anymore.