Chapter Twenty-Four
mia
I don’t have time to recover. Or think about the implications of his offer. Once I’m seated on the floor, Preston’s back at the couch, legs trapping me in place again.
“You know what we did wrong, Mia?” His voice is threaded with something heavier than usual.
Ha! So much. This is a trick question, right? Or at least a rhetorical one?
I look over my shoulder but don’t turn fully. My own voice dips to match his. “What?”
“We never interviewed for our jobs.”
I smirk. “Lucky for Lily. You’d never have hired me, would you?” I sit a little straighter, pretending to focus on the TV. “And what do you mean by our?”
I feel the warmth of his chest before I feel his hands.
His fingers land on my shoulders with easy confidence, and the next sweep of his thumbs undoes every last coherent thought of mine. He finds the knots like they’re old friends. Presses into them with practiced care. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just right.
“I just applied for a teaching position,” he says, his tone a depraved blend of irony and seduction. “So I think it’s only fair,” he continues, “that I show you my credentials. Let’s do things right this time around.”
I inhale and forget what to do next.
His thumbs knead, first firm and purposeful, then slower, deeper into the base of my neck. Next, his hands drift lower, gliding down my back, tracing around my ribs, teasing across the front of my top. Each stroke deliberate. Mapping out his intent.
He never goes under the fabric. Doesn’t cross a single technical boundary.
And yet, my body lights up like he flipped a switch.
Every nerve ending hums with tension. His touch. His voice. The unbearable focus behind both. He’s a master indeed.
His fingers skim the sides of my breasts, and my nipples tighten, rock-hard and painful beneath nothing but cotton and lust.
I press my thighs together, desperate for friction. For grounding. For anything.
My eyes flutter shut. I have no idea if the movie’s still playing. All I hear is his breath behind me, the blood rushing in my ears, and the soft scrape of his hands writing indecent promises across my skin.
Is it too soon to scream “Hired!”?
It is. It so is. I’d cut my own tongue out with a Play-Doh knife before interrupting this so-called audition.
Can you die from sensory overload? Will I be the first case on record?
Please, God, don’t let me die a sexually unsatisfied woman. That would be the worst way to go. Except… this? This feels too good to be the worst way to depart. I don’t know a thing anymore. I’ve lost track of my own name.
And then—his mouth. Right at my ear.
“Mia.”
My name. That’s all it takes. That’s how tight he’s got me wound up.
A full-body jolt runs through me. I don’t fight it. I reverberate.
The sound of him shoots straight to my center. It sparks a chain reaction I feel everywhere. I’ve never felt like this. Never responded like that.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
I can’t speak. Can’t think.
He waits. Then softens. “You okay?”
I nod. Aggressively.
His chuckle is low and molten. It pools beneath my skin. Actually, the pooling’s happening somewhere else entirely.
And then I feel his hands again.
Not rushed.
Exploring.
Learning.
And I—I am one slow breath away from falling apart.
“Mia.”
He says again. But the way it falls from his lips: reverent, drenched in want. It has my whole body tighter than a bowstring.
How the hell does he make my name sound X-rated?
He’s not a doctor. He’s an orgasm whisperer. And I’m seconds away from embarrassing myself all over this very tasteful quilt.
“Yeah?” The word vibrates its way out of my hoarse throat.
He’s closer.
Too close.
Not close enough.
A gentle kiss lands just behind my ear, and it sets off a chain reaction that ripples all the way down to my feet. In my lungs. In the hot mess between my thighs.
“Will you?” Another kiss. Feather-soft. Cruel. “Let me show you what I mean by credentials?” His mouth brushes lower, wetter, like he’s already savoring the obvious answer.
I’m not sure I have a skeleton anymore. I’ve become a sigh-wearing skin.
I lean back, eyes closed, my head resting between his strong thighs, and whisper, “Yes. Show me.”
His hands glide to my waist, unhurried. No fumbling. No rush. Just a confident kind of patience I’ve never been privy to before.
My top is ancient, soft from a thousand washes. The neckline dips too low, the fabric clings too close. It’s soft enough to tease, and rough enough to make me ache.
Underneath, I’ve got a nothing little bra. Thin. Useless. Perfect for the occasion. It’s as if my subconscious dressed me for this ‘audition’.
His hands skim the flimsy material, deliberate and slow, like there’s something sacred underneath. Me.
His thumbs graze the tops of my breasts. The straps are down, but he doesn’t go underneath the top. He follows the edges. He lays the promise.
My nipples ache, tight and straining under their confinement. Desperate for the attention he keeps out of reach.
There’s no room for fear. No space for shame. No time for self-doubt. Not when he looks at me like this.
And when I hold his gaze—hungry, focused, absolutely undone—I believe it. I become the woman he sees. I slip into the fantasy he’s built, and I never want to come out.
This man is going to ruin me.
This was a terrible idea.
Or the best one I’ve ever had.
“I need you to talk to me, Mia,” he says, soft and serious.
“Talk?” My head jerks up. “Right now? I’m not actually interviewing you, Preston!”
He chuckles—a deep, filthy rumble—and rubs a lazy circle over one nipple. The sound I make is… not English. Definitely not holy.
“No, baby,” he murmurs. “I need you to tell me. What feels good. What doesn’t. If this is okay. What’s too much. What’s not enough.”
Each sentence is punctuated by a new kind of stroke, where he goes from firmer to lighter, always curious. It’s titty braille for bliss.
“If I’m going to be a good teacher…” he trails off, dragging his nails along the swell of my breast, “I’ve got some learning to do too.”
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
His fingers chart new territory—the generous slope of my waist, the soft dip of my stomach.
Every curve, he handles like a privilege.
Places I’m too far gone to be self-conscious about right now.
Then a pinch on one nipple makes me hiss.
It’s heaven. It’s hell. It’s too much and not enough all at once.
He does it again, on the other one. I gasp and arch. Chase his hands without meaning to.
Then he rolls them—gentle, coaxing.
I tip my head back and sideways to moan against his thigh.
He does it harder.
“Y-yes,” I choke out.
It’s not a word. It’s a chant. More follows.
“That’s it, baby,” he groans, voice rough with approval, and my soul considers leaving my body. She doesn’t want to miss a thing.
“I need you to remember something.” Not sure I can, but I don’t interrupt him. “This is for you. You set the pace. You say when. You say where. And you say stop.”
I believe him. Because I can feel it. In every careful touch. In every measured breath. In every second he’s spending learning me—not as a body to take, but a world to explore. A place to worship.
“I want to ask you something. But I don’t want to push you.”
“Try me, Doctor.”
His index finger slips inside my top, tracing the edge of my bra. “Can I see you?”
In my mind, I don’t hesitate. But in real-time? I need to catch my breath first. “Yes.”
“Put your hands behind my knees and keep them there.”
My arms obey before my brain catches up, and they cling there for dear life. He pushes everything that covers me down. It’s the best improvised corset ever, lifting my breasts like an offering, framed and full, for him.
Preston loses his composure for the first time tonight. His legs shift wider, his hips tip forward, drawn like he can’t help himself. The hissed “fuck” that follows hits me as the most obscene, most genuine compliment of my life.
He tries to top it anyway. “You’re so gorgeous, Mia. Delectable.”
I’m humping air, and I couldn't care less how desperate I look. And since I’m past humiliating myself, I beg, “Touch me. Please, Doc.”
Does he? Why, when he can torture me more instead?
“Open your mouth,” is his next command.
It startles my eyes open. I wasn’t expecting that. But at this point, I’m conditioned to follow his every lead. I want it all. What he’s giving, what he’s holding back. I’ll beg for both. He’s primed my body for it.
“Stick your tongue out for me.”
I do. He slides two fingers past my lips, and I suck them on instinct.
He gives me a wicked smile. The dirtiest, most delighted thing I’ve ever seen painted on someone’s face. My professor seems pleased he didn’t have to tell me to do that.
I get it now. Homemade porn. I want to see this again. Replay it a hundred times. So I don’t blink. I burn it into my brain.
When he pulls his fingers out, they leave with a slick, popping sound. “Such an eager one,” he rasps, then uses those same fingers to tease my nipple.
I use his leg again to muffle the moans, arching hard enough that I might need him to fix my back later. He pulls, then rolls my nipple between his fingers, and I lose control of every muscle, including the ones behind my eyes.
His touch grows bolder. I grow wetter. I’m fluttering, aching and about to explode.
I shift, grinding my clothed cunt against the quilt. Just a little more friction. A tiny bit will be enough. I’m seconds away from losing it.
I suck on new fingers, and he works on both nipples now, wet and hard. I need release, or I’ll self-destruct.
“Can I touch myself?” I beg.
It’s his turn to freeze—but he never lets go of me. “Fuck.” There he goes again. Turning curses into compliments.
His hands are back on me. His mouth. His voice. Him.
All of it has me buzzing, my whole body drawn tight and begging for release.
A groan breaks from deep in his chest—like he’s barely hanging on—and then, “Yes.”
Permission granted.
I keep one arm fastened behind his thigh as my right hand slips into my panties, sliding easily into my soaked pussy. My clit is swollen, more sensitive than I’ve ever felt it in my life.
“Are you inside that pussy, Mia?”
“Yes,” I breathe, echoing the word I’ve been repeating all night.
“Are you wet?”
“Drenched.” I bring my fingers back to my clit, circling hard and fast.
“Is every drop for me?”
“Preston—fuck! I’m coming.”
I convulse between his legs as he pulls, pinches, and torments my nipples with devastating precision. His mouth drops to the top of my head, inhaling me as I ride the aftershocks of one of the best orgasms of my life.
This audition deserves a standing ovation, but my legs are on strike.
He buries a kiss into my hair, and when he speaks again, his tone has shifted. It’s threaded with warning. “I need you to go upstairs now,” he says. Voice hoarse. Tone commanding. But the man is torn. “Don’t look at me as you go.”
“What?” I’m still coming back to my senses. “What did I do wrong?”
“Don’t you dare think that.” His breath shudders.
“You’re nothing less than magnificent.” Another sharp inhale.
“I’m an honorable man, Mia. But I’m not strong enough to look at your flushed face and keep my distance.
” He leans back on the sofa, hands tight on his thighs and waits.
“Upstairs. Now.” He looks ready to pounce on me. “Did I stutter, Mia?”
No, but my vagina just did.
“Go straight to your room. Maybe lock the door. No, definitely lock the door.”
I’m still panting, still trying to get my jelly legs to cooperate, when he speaks again. “Go. This is your last warning.”
I scramble up from the floor, pushing my tits back into the top, without daring a glance back. Not because I don't want to, but because I don’t trust myself either.
I never knew fooling around could be this fun. This filthy. This soul-wrecking.
But I don’t make it to my room. Not all the way. I crouch on the third step, silent, listening to him. His breath is fast, broken. The grit in it. The edge.
It’s brutal.
And then his release—furious, almost punishing.
It’s fucking glorious.
He doesn’t last long either.
The guttural sound he makes when he comes becomes my new life mission. I need to hear it again—face-to-face next time.
“Go to bed, Mia,” he calls, lower now. Spent.
The sound of my name, post-orgasm, on his lips nearly knocks me off the step.
I flee like my ass is on fire, slam my bedroom door, lock it, and slide down with my back to it—cheeks burning, heart galloping.
Grinning like a lunatic.
Still breathless, I pick up my phone and type him a text with trembling fingers: ‘You’re hired.’
Wink emoji.
I’m holding the phone to my chest, trying to slow my breathing, when I hear the soft press of the door handle.
It doesn’t open. I remembered to lock it.
From the other side, his voice slips through—smug and velvet-smooth. “Good girl.”