Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
mia
I’m pacing my room, willing him to come over, already worried for his physical well-being if he actually does. I’ve lost track of time and heartbeats—whichever is racing harder, it’s a photo finish.
When I finally give my legs a break and plop onto the bed, there’s a knock. I bounce straight back up. Pathetic, horny—possibly deranged.
Preston cracks the door open, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you awake? Can I come in?”
“Please.” Lord, help me. I’m already begging.
He slips inside, and I grin, suddenly sixteen again and sneaking behind my father’s caravan.
Preston shuts the door and locks it, all without a sound.
He’s a ninja in low-hanging pajama pants, an old T-shirt, and socks.
Socks. I bite my lip to stop the snort. If someone had told me I’d be hyperventilating over a gray-haired man in socks, I would’ve howled in their face.
But right now, my pussy’s doing the giggling.
“We’re finally alone,” he says, breathless.
He closes the distance between us, arm sliding around my waist, the other cupping the back of my neck. He breathes me in like this is where he gets his air supply. It’s deep, kind of possessive, and I melt into him.
His nose traces the slope from my shoulder to the base of my ear, his beard scratching my skin.
Another inhale. Deeper. And when he exhales, my whole body shivers in response.
I’m way out of my depth here. And I’m right where I want to be.
“Mia.” He says my name like a plea, and I want to inject it straight into my bloodstream.
“Say it again.” I feel his smile on my skin, and I smile back.
“Mia?” This time it’s teasing, and I decide I love all the ways my name sounds coming from him.
“Yes?”
“We’ve skipped something very important.”
“What?”
He’s going to have to spell it out, because my brain clocked out the moment I felt his cock harden against me. His arm is a steel bar behind me, pinning me to his chest, while his other hand alternates between stroking my scalp and grazing my skin with his fingertips, detonating goosebumps.
“I need to kiss you.”
He doesn’t say want. He says need. And I believe him. I’ve been played a lot. There’s no part of me that feels that way with Preston. I believe every syllable he gives me. It's dangerous territory, but I do. It makes me feel braver. Wanted. Whole.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Permission,” he murmurs into my ear, then nips the lobe. “Say you want it too.” He sucks it into his mouth, and I nearly combust.
“Doctor, I want you to use, train, and possibly ruin my entire body. I think my mouth is a solid place to start. Kiss me.”
“You won’t be needing lessons in dirty talk, will you, Miss Thorne?”
Oh, if only he knew… This is all him. I’ve never felt braver. Never felt safer. I’ve never spoken like this before, and God, I love this version of myself. The one who says what she wants. The one who knows what she wants.
And yes, I absolutely want dirty talk lessons. More than that, I want to hear every depraved thing this man can say. I want him to show me how filthy he can be—and find out just what it does to me.
“We’ll get there when we get there,” I tell him, already breathless. “Now shut up and put that smart mouth to work, Dr. Jett.”
He does.
It starts rough, desperate. All the tension from the day erupts between our mouths, but somehow, it’s never messy.
Never out of sync. We fit from the first press of lips, a perfect collision of want and rhythm.
Tongues tangle in sync, as if we’ve done this a hundred times in another life.
The kiss sears and soothes at once, a paradox I want to drown in.
I want more. I want everything. I want hungry, I want tender. I want ruined and worshipped in equal measure.
And somehow, he delivers it all.
He gets me there, while my hands slip from his hair, greedy to explore the rest of him—shoulders, arms, back—pulling him closer, fusing us together.
I decide then and there that I’ve never been kissed before.
Not really. Not like this.
Every awkward, slobbery, mismatched clash of mouths I’ve endured? They don’t count. They don’t deserve to exist in the same category. All unworthy of being called kisses.
Whatever this is—this heat, this precision, this dizzying give and take—makes everything before it insignificant.
I’m humping the man now, one leg hooked around his waist.
I need him to stop before I embarrass myself. I will never, in a million years, let him.
The longer he kisses me, the faster I lose my capacity to think straight.
Preston threads his fingers deeper through my hair, tilting my head as his mouth drifts to my neck.
“You don’t need lessons in kissing,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my throat.
“So, tell me”—he tightens his grip, just enough to steal a breath from my lungs—“what do you need help with, Miss Thorne?”
I’m grinning like an idiot, trying to pretend the best kiss of my entire existence didn’t just melt my brain. Forming a sentence now is like asking noodles to do calculus.
“I wrote a…”
His tongue traces back up my neck, slow and wet, followed by the scrape of teeth. My train of thought disintegrates on impact. He finds the spot beneath my ear and claims it, licking, biting, sucking, until the word I was reaching for evaporates.
I moan instead. Because language has failed me, as it does. My body is the only one doing any talking now.
Taking mercy on my dying vocabulary, Preston finishes the sentence for me.
“You wrote a list, didn’t you?” His palm slides from my waist to my ass—grabbing a scandalous amount in those big hands of his, with those skillful surgeon’s fingers I should absolutely not be fantasizing about.
He grinds his cock against my pussy through our thin layers of fabric, making me gasp, then moan.
There’ll be no coherent sentences from me tonight. Only curses.
If I speak, it’ll be in tongues.
“You wrote me that pretty color-coded list I asked, didn’t you? With every filthy thing you want me to show you? Teach you?” he murmurs against my neck, each question a slow thrust against me.
He knows it. He knows me. And that makes everything so much hotter.
I’m wearing a silk cami set I panic-ordered this morning and paid an obscene rush fee for. Zero regrets. His pajama pants are barely thicker than a tissue. If he keeps talking, keeps moving, keeps pressing his hardness onto me—I’ll come before we even get to item one.
“What’s on the top of that list, baby? Tell me.”
I loop my arms around his neck and hitch my leg higher around his waist, chasing more friction, granting him full access. I’m wide open, grinding shamelessly against his shaft. Whoever this unhinged woman is, writhing and whimpering and dripping for a man she only just started kissing… I adore her.
“I can’t… I can’t reme—”
He swallows the rest with a kiss, rescuing me from the humiliation of stuttering and ruining the moment.
When we break for breath, I don’t think—I just act. My hand slips between us, palm landing over his cock with a need so bold it borders on criminal. “I want to see you. Taste you. Let me.”
His dick pulses in my hand, so thick and heavy, each throb daring me to look down. I haven’t even seen it yet, but the thin cotton between us does nothing to soften the threat. I’ve never handled anything this massive.
My body’s split between two urges: climb him or run for my life. He’s going to either crack my pelvis or rearrange my internal organs.
But I didn’t come this far to fold at the sight of a challenge. Doesn’t matter how—literally—imposing it is.
I tug on the string of his pajama pants and loosen the bow, ready to dive into uncharted territory, when his fingers close around my wrist.
“Always so eager to please,” he murmurs, tone dark and knowing. “Always thinking about someone else’s needs before your own.”
What in fresh, condescending hell is this?
I glare. He grins.
“Let’s break that habit, shall we?”
He lifts my hand away with maddening care, as if unwrapping a present he intends to take his time with. “Here’s tonight’s lesson,” he says, walking me back against the wall, and pinning said hand above my head.
Fuck, that’s hot.
“Never put your mouth on a man who hasn’t made you come first. Who hasn’t begged for the chance to taste you. Who hasn’t earned it.”
Oh, shit.
By that logic, I’ve never had proper cause to suck a single dick in my entire life.
He carries on, since I only communicate through moans now.
“Do you know the saying ‘don’t do to others what you wouldn’t want done to yourself?
’ For head, it’s the opposite. Don’t waste a second on a man who’s not desperate to go down on you.
So the rule is: don’t do to others what they haven’t fucking earned. ”
Preston lifts my chin, gaze locked on mine, dead serious.
“If he hasn’t made you scream for mercy with his mouth on your pussy—” His palm lowers, presses between my thighs, fingers sliding slow and firm over silk.
My hips widen, answering before my mouth can.
“He doesn’t get your time. He doesn’t get your smile.
He sure as hell doesn’t get your mouth. Got it? ”
I nod so fast I might sprain something.
“Good.” He grins, and my chin drops—having him in control feels borderline spiritual. “Now, the next part of our lesson…”
For one sanity-snapping second, his fingers leave my pussy.
He slides his thumb beneath my waistband in a deliberate move. And even when he’s seconds away from total depravity, ever the gentleman, he asks, “May I have this pleasure?”
I stop him, my free hand leaving his neck to wrap around his wrist. Not to refuse—but to stall. To manage expectations. Because even though my panties could end a small drought, my brain’s sprinting in circles, and I need him to know it’s not about him.
“Pres, I’ve… never come from…”
Again, he silences me with a kiss. Hotter and hungrier than before. Just distracting enough to settle the nerves buzzing through me.
Forehead to forehead, breath tangled with mine, he drags me closer by the waist—straight into his hard cock—and asks again, softer now, deadlier, “May I have this pleasure?”
I nod, but he’s not done.
“I want to make you come, Mia. But make no mistake, this isn’t just for you. I’ve been dying to taste you. To spread you open with my tongue. Then wider with my fingers. To figure out if you lose your mind faster when I suck your clit or when I flick it.”
Oh, fuck. My hips jerk against him on instinct. A needy grind. No shame.
I’ve got toys for each of those sensations—one that pulses, one that flickers—but never a man curious to find out which breaks me first.
“I’m going to make you feel good, baby. So good.
I want you soaked and shaking. And when you cry out my name?
When your thighs tremble around my face?
I’ll feel invincible. Like a fucking god.
You begging for more is the part I’m looking forward to the most. Because I’m not stopping, Mia.
Not until you're a fucking mess with only my name on your tongue.”
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” The curses slip out, no louder than a breath. I have no filter, no finesse left as I teeter on the edge, just from his voice and the filthy promises spilling from his mouth. I rub myself all over his cock.
“No, baby.” He keeps our foreheads pressed together, but pulls his hips back. I whimper at the loss, mourning the lack of contact. “You come on my face tonight. On my tongue. While I drink your every drop.”
“Preston, I’m about to come just from your words,” I pant.
“You like hearing what I’ll do to you?”
“So much. So bad. The only excuse you have to stop talking dirty like that is if you’re kissing me.”
“Down here too?” His finger slips beneath the wide leg of my shorts, past the edge of my panties. I moan, mouth parting, hips chasing every stroke.
“Fuck, baby. Is this all for me?” His index slides in easy, just the tip. I’m slick and hot, my body eager to take him deeper.
I nod frantically. He has to know. He has to feel what he’s doing to me.
“I’m going to lick this pussy dry, then make you wet all over again. I’m going to eat you until there’s nothing left to taste, then I’m going to keep going just to hear you whimper.”
I whimper on cue, body short-circuiting like it’s voice-activated.
“Remember, Mia, this isn’t just about you. I need this. So I'm going to take my time. If you come too fast, I won’t stop. I’ll keep eating you. And you’re going to take it. You’re going to take me. Tonight, baby, you’re going to let me feast.”
“Oh, God.” My knees buckle, and I grab onto his shoulders to keep standing. His hands move to my waist, steadying me. His hold never falters.
“Not so worried about coming on my face anymore, are you, Miss Thorne?”
“Get down there. Now, Doctor.”
He grins. “With pleasure.”
He drops to his knees like it’s a goddamn reflex. No hesitation, no delay. Just focused hunger.
My head hits the wall. I lift my hips, inviting him closer—in. I don’t remember leaning my shoulders or widening my stance. I don’t recall anything but him between my legs, eyes locked on mine like he’s memorizing the view for every night he’s ever alone again.
And then he tugs my shorts down.
“Preston,” I gasp—part panic, part want.
“Shhh.” His breath brushes my inner thigh. “Let me taste how much you want this.”
I choke on air.
I’ve done things. Daydreamed about this specific thing. But nothing prepared me for his mouth on me. For the soft suck. The filthy groan. The way his tongue slides in slow, like he’s tasting something expensive he doesn’t want to waste.
I make a sound, something between a gasp and a sob.
His hand comes up, palm flat on my belly, holding me in place. Maybe he knows I’m about to levitate.
Either way, he’s got me. Right where he wants me.