Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
mia
What the fuck was I thinking? Seriously, what?! I scream at myself internally—though, let’s be honest, I’m one minor inconvenience away from doing it out loud—while assaulting the poor, unsuspecting coffee machine in the waiting room.
I jab every button, and foam spews from somewhere it shouldn’t. Perfect. That’ll do. We’re both having breakdowns.
I curse myself under my breath and spiral further down the mentally unstable waterslide I’ve been on since he walked through his psychologist’s door.
Because of course he’s in there talking about his ex.
What else would he be doing? He’s unpacking the trauma of his dead relationship, obviously. Processing the fact that the last woman he loved cheated on him and left him emotionally wrecked with a kid to raise on his own, and a house full of memories.
And me? Ha-ha. I thought it would be cute—cute—to book a hotel room for sex straight after this.
Great job, Mia. Truly inspired. A+ for emotional sensitivity.
He’s inside, unearthing heartbreak, and I’m out here unwedging way-too-revealing lingerie from my ass, trying to pick between matte lipstick for visual impact, or creamy for a messy performance.
I drop in my chair, defeated, emotional support espresso denied. There’s no one besides me, but my insecurities are crowding me to the point where I’m feeling claustrophobic.
What if he’s still thinking about her when he’s with me?
What if I can’t make him forget?
What if I am not enough?
Oh, fuck. What if I don’t matter?
Maybe I’m just the first distraction. The forbidden nanny.
A post-breakup palate cleanser with big boobs and a passport.
And sure, that’s all this is supposed to be. I know it, my vagina knows it, my brain’s been preaching it nonstop. But there’s this one tiny, stupid part of me that keeps dreaming differently.
And it’s killing me.
The receptionist takes pity and shows me how to use the coffee machine. I show my appreciation by knocking back three espressos. Now I’m over-caffeinated and spiraling, digging myself a mental grave with every dumb what-if I can think of. There are so many of them.
Insecurity and regret flood me, slow and steady, until I’m not even sure blood’s running through my veins anymore. Actually, all the blood is gone. I used every drop of it to paint all the terrible scenarios I could come up with.
Basically, I’m doing everything I shouldn’t do right before meeting the sexiest man who’s ever looked at me twice.
This is fine, I tell myself. Totally fine.
No red flags here. Just one emotionally constipated Brit who probably got more insight in fifty minutes than everyone else in this clinic combined.
And no, of course I’m not falling for him. That would be absurd.
Except… Something’s shifting. It’s not just about a list of the sexy things I want to learn anymore.
Not simply about feeling wanted or claiming back some confidence.
I want to be more than a warm body he gets to hold while he remembers what connection feels like.
I want to be the reason he never forgets ever again.
Of course I want to matter.
And that—fuck. That’s the terrifying part.
Preston steps out of the room, and I stand. Damn it. I should have something prepared for this moment. A confident greeting. A casual one-liner. Something cool, effortless.
Instead, I’m vibrating with caffeine, wearing ass-floss panties, and ten seconds away from crying. Great.
He shakes hands with the doctor, and I hear them discussing the next session. Amazing, he’s starting treatment. “Get in touch with my assistant, she’ll find you something,” she says with a grin.
“Oh, I’m his assistant. I’ll get that done, thank you,” I blurt from where I’m standing. Close enough to hear them. Not nearly far enough to justify that volume. Nerves and caffeine have officially staged a coup against my common sense.
Get a grip, Mia.
Grace? Poise? Never heard of either.
“Thanks again, Dr. Beck. See you next week.”
She nods and calls her next patient in.
Preston strides toward me and wraps one hand around the nape of my neck, the other slipping to the small of my back as he pulls me in.
I tense. PDA. Out in the wild. I’m not sure how to feel about it, because we’re supposed to be a secret, and this feels quite the opposite.
I just introduced myself as his assistant, and now he’s hugging me in a very… unassistant-like manner.
We need to discuss the rules I’ve written, the ‘define boundaries of professional behavior’ list. It’s right there between ‘shag boss’ and ‘don’t catch feelings’.
But when he kisses my forehead and says, “Thank you,” the nerves and rules vanish into thin air.
“Therapy really helps me see things more clearly.” Pres kisses my cheek now and keeps talking, which is lucky, because the rules didn’t disappear at all—they’ve just migrated to my throat and are currently choking me out.
“It’s a gift you have, you know that? Knowing what people need. ”
“I… I…”
He steps back just a bit, barely enough to let air pass between us—but it’s a canyon. My body aches for him to close it. All the awful things tormenting my mind vanish when he holds me that close.
“But now it’s time I take care of your needs, Miss Thorne.”
Ahh… What?
A second ago, I was blushing so hard you’d think he’d licked my neck—no, my crack—in front of my granny.
Then he thanked me in a way that turned me into a puddle of feelings.
And now? Now he’s whispering filth in my ear, and I’m trying not to moan in the waiting room or fall over from emotional whiplash.
“My… needs?” Of course I know what he means. My brain just hasn’t caught up yet.
“I know you never fail when you’re given a task,” he says, gaze burning. “Our room’s ready, right?”
It is. And so am I. But all I manage is a nod and a useless gulp to clear the desert my throat has become.
He extends a hand, palm open. “And the list I asked you to print?”
“I got it,” I whisper, as if anyone heard me, they’d know just how filthy it is.
He lowers his mouth to my ear, and his voice wraps me. Calm where it shouldn’t be, rough enough to ruin me. “Give me the list. Then go to the restroom and take off your panties.”
I hand the paper straight from my oversized purse to him. He folds it twice, neat and precise, and slips it into the front pocket of his button-down shirt.
“Now go to the bathroom and bring me your panties back,” he says, brushing his lips against the shell of my ear.
My chin drops, but no words come out. My instinct is to argue, but deep down, I want to do it.
I want to please him. Then be rewarded by him.
And the thrill, the risk of getting caught, it amps up everything.
I don’t move. Not out of defiance; I’m just… soaking it all in.
His hungry stare. His flaring nostrils. Being his one and single focus.
“What if I told you I’m not wearing any?”
One eyebrow shoots up. His mouth tilts sideways.
I crack first. “I’m kidding. I’ll be right back.” I bolt to the bathroom at lightning speed, with my new favorite soundtrack playing behind me. Preston’s belly laugh. It’s loud and free, and I’m in love. With it. It. Definitely just it.
I splash cold water over my face—forehead, temples, neck—careful not to ruin my makeup.
Then I strip my panties off before I lose my nerve or give my brain a vote. The second I feel the wet lace in my hand, I nearly black out.
His little tease has my thighs already slick, sticking to each other with every step.
If we had to walk to the hotel, I’d be chafed raw by the time we got there.
And I’m aiming for that in a different area.
New plan. I’ll put the panties into his back pocket. I can make that look sexy, right?
Probably.
Maybe.
Hope goes missing when I remember why I wrote the list. I have no idea how to be sexy.
I open the bathroom door, and there he is. Waiting. With that damn open palm.
The silver lining is that the waiting room is nearly empty. He points to his hand with a smug tilt of his nose. I slip the lace into his palm and strut ahead.
The silver fox catches my arm, tugging me gently back to him. He leans down, breathing in my ear. He’s all honey and filth. “Oh, Mia. Already?”