Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
mia
“Let’s get out of here. Now.” The urgency in his voice obliterates the shame before it dwells. Preston’s already dragging me toward the exit, the fingers of his free hand laced tight through mine, his pace murderous. I scramble to keep up.
By the time we’re back in the car and the seat belts are on, we’re out of breath. Sunlight pours through the windshield, but when I lower the windows, he tsks and slides my hand off the console. He raises the tinted glass back up and crank the aircon.
“How far away is the hotel?”
“Twenty minutes, last I checked. But that was at 5 a.m. No clue if there’s traffic now.”
“I fucking hope there is.” He turns to me with a smile that could headline a porno and still win a bloody Oscar.
His palm smooths down my floral skirt, but on the way back up, he fists the fabric and pulls it high. That’s when he finds the side slit and smiles with a filthy satisfaction that makes my insides clench.
His hand slips beneath the fabric, knuckles grazing bare thigh.
“God, Mia,” he growls. “You’re dripping. Wet just from being told what to do.”
“Pres…” My neck forgets how to hold my head straight.
“Don’t play coy now. You handed me your soaked panties with that sweet little blush on your cheeks like you didn’t want me to know what I did to you.
” He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring once he drops it to his lap.
“You should see yourself right now. Squirming. Choking on your own heartbeat.”
I let out a breath that’s barely a sound. He slides his hand higher, and I try to widen my legs for him.
“Good girls follow orders. And you’re going to be such a good girl for me today, aren’t you? Gonna let me cross every item on that list. And then rewrite it. In my fucking cum.”
He groans and pulls back just enough to scan me again. “You're really trying to kill me, huh? Dressing up for the occasion like this?”
I didn’t. But I let him believe I did. In reality, I only dreamed as far as fooling around on that balcony, where no one could see us, and I was still dressed in that fantasy.
I picked an outfit that made me feel hot and hopeful. A high-waisted skirt to play up the curves, flatforms so I don’t trip over myself trying to seduce him, and a top with just enough cleavage to enter revealing territory if you’re looking from the right angle.
Say, over six feet tall. Say, Preston Jett.
“Open those pretty thighs for me, gorgeous.”
I inhale his words, wishing I could taste them. His fingers graze my entrance, but there’s not enough room for him to explore. Not yet.
I’m not letting a seat stop him. I scoot up, edge my knees higher, fisting the sides of my skirt. I want to see every goddamn thing he does to me.
“You know you’re spoiling me, right?” he says, circling my clit with the slick he’s already found. Like I’m a present he gets to unwrap anytime he wants.
Spoiling him? I’m being finger-fucked in broad daylight, riding around New York City, and I’m spoiling him? I’d laugh in his face if I wasn’t too busy maintaining what little composure I have left.
“Always so wet for me,” he groans, voice thick with awe and filth. “I’m tempted to finger you in the middle of the day just to prove it, just to feel how ready you always are for me. Fuck, I want to finger you in the middle of the night too, while you’re fast asleep, if I’m being honest.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I’d like that,” I confess.
My breath catches as two fingers push inside, my core clenching like it’s been waiting all morning for this. Because it has.
New images flood my brain: him bending me over the kitchen island, whispering “Don’t stop cooking” as his fingers work me open from behind. Him waking me up slowly, murmuring in my ear while he fingers me before I’m even fully conscious. Him touching me because I’m his to touch, even in sleep.
He’s right. The list is growing, and all he’s doing is finger-fucking me in a car.
Do I even know how to spell somnophilia?
Not sure. But I want to know how it feels.
And also, how do I extend my visa? I haven’t even fucked him yet, and I already know I need more time to do this properly.
“First things first. Where are we going?” he asks.
“The Hyatt.”
He commands the car’s GPS to take us there and then drives his fingers deeper into me. Fuck, it feels so good. And so wrong. I’m embarrassingly wet for him, so they slide right in, no resistance whatsoever.
“Damn, Pres. You work me so good.” I rock against his hand, a slow grind, forward and back, inviting him further in. He accepts the invitation with a third finger as his plus one.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you ride me,” he grunts. “All flushed and needy. You’ve got that look, baby. Like you’re ready to beg for more.”
I reach for him, my palm pressing against his zipper.
He tuts. “I’m the designated driver, baby. Gotta limit my distractions.”
Then he circles my clit as if I needed any clarification as to what his distraction is at the moment.
“You’re in a very good mood today, Doctor.”
“If you must know, I had a spectacular evening last night.” He licks his lips and picks up the rhythm as if the memory’s getting him worked up.
“If that’s what it takes, eating pussy, I’ll give it to you. I’ll leave the door unlocked every night.”
“First of all—” He pinches my clit hard. Oh lord, if that’s supposed to be punishment, he’s got it all twisted. That’s pure reward.
“Not ‘eating pussy.’ Eating your sweet, ripe-as-fuck pussy.”
His fingers slide back in, bold and unrelenting, and I roll my hips, chasing the fullness. I know he’s stretching me, coaxing my body to make space for the monster he’s caging in those pants.
“Don’t tell my colleagues,” he jokes. “They’d never believe I’m all for alternative medicine now.”
I laugh, but of course he chooses that exact moment to curl his fingers and stroke that fucking hidden spot—the one that makes me see constellations. My back lifts from the seat, and the sound that escapes me is part moan, part hymn.
“Fuck, Pres. How do you—”
“I pay attention, baby. I never stop watching you.”
“So we’re seconds away from crashing, since you’re not watching the road?”
He chuckles, low and wicked, and oh my God, the sound prompts me to rock down harder on his hand, desperate for more friction.
“Would you die a happy woman?”
“Fuck, yes. Just make me come before you roll the car over, okay?”
“Wait. Let me die a happy man too.”
He pulls his fingers out, and I’m ready to riot when he lifts them to his mouth and sucks. Each one. With the concentration of a food critic about to hand out Michelin stars.
The noises tearing out of him are raw, primal. My nails dig in, about to rip the leather right off the seat. We hit a red light, and he adjusts himself.
“There. Now we can both die happily.”
His fingers plunge back in. Straight where my body already knows his name. He rubs me like he’s signing a love letter.
“We’re four minutes away, baby.” He pumps deeper, circles faster, and I grind right back, synced to every filthy beat he sets. “I’m not stopping you until you come, and I’m not changing the route. So, unless you want to give the valet the show of his life, stop fighting it and let go.”
I squeeze his fingers at that idea. Hard.
He feels it. Of course he does. I catch the smug bastard grinning.
“You like that, don't you?” He pinches my clit, and my moans reach far beyond the confines of this car. “What is it that made you tighten around me like that? The risk of being caught? Or do you get off on being watched?”
“Oh, God,” I say, instead of yes to both; my orgasm within reach now.
“Do you like the idea of having people stare at what they can’t touch?
” His fingers slam back inside me, slapping my clit, and I meet every thrust. “Because I’m not fucking sharing, Mia.
” He fucks me hard. Punishing. Well, supposedly.
I’m loving it. I haven’t shown him the list and already I’ve learned something new: clit slapping. Delicious.
He fucks me as deep and rough as the position allows. I’d let him do anything right now. Let him bruise me just to feel him everywhere later.
“They can look, but they don’t get to touch. You hear me?”
It gets me off when he talks like that.
“Fuck, Pres. I’m close. Don’t stop.”
“Such a filthy girl. Come for me, and we’ll do every single thing you’re fantasizing about right now. I’ll make every dirty dream of yours come true.”
I believe it.
So I come, screaming as his palm hits my clit just right, not sure I can make any sound coherent or understandable right now.
His words do things to me I can’t explain within reason.
“I’ll give you everything you want, Mia,” he growls.
I’m spent, but still bouncing on his hand, shattered and blissed out, while he watches with a kind of reverence I wasn’t prepared for.
“Preston, I…”
I want to tell him he’s the orgasm whisperer. That nothing—no toy, no ex, not even my own damn imagination—has ever made me feel this good. But the words die a quick, tragic death the moment he sucks me off his fingers like it’s his new favorite flavor.
Hell, I don’t lick caramel sauce like that. I don’t look at anything like he looks at me. I could watch this scene on a loop and never get bored.
“We’re here.” He adjusts my skirt just in time as the car goes up the valet ramp. Waiting for us is an elderly man with a smile too kind for this moment in my life. He opens my door, welcomes me to the hotel with a cheerful nod, and I'm instantly consumed with a mix of guilt and shame.
Preston, of course, is unbothered. He laughs all the way around the car, hands over his keys, a generous tip, and a thank-you like he didn’t just finger-blast me into another dimension.
As soon as we’re out of earshot, he leans in close. “Good thing you came all over my fingers, or you would’ve put that poor man in his grave.” We both laugh, loud and reckless, but that easiness is cut short when he laces his fingers through mine.
“Pres, what if someone sees us?”
I try to slip my hand free, but his grip tightens, trapping me. His eyebrows rise and say, not happening.
“It’s Wednesday morning. Nobody we know will be here. You’re lucky my hand’s on yours and not back inside you. So be a good girl and say, ‘Thank you, Doctor Jett.’”
“Ha. You’ll have to do better than that to earn a thank you, Doctor.”