Page 62 of Interpreter

I’ve never felt anything more powerful or so intimate than what she just did. Her hands matched the beats of the music. When the notes hit harder, so did her movement. I don’t know if she realized she was dancing. She looked swept away with the song. Lost in the music, as the saying goes.

And I felt it.

Every goddamned note. Every vibrato I felt through her eyes.

It felt like when I watched Aspen experience walking for the first time. When she realized she could move without help, touch anything and everything her little feet could carry her to. I was happy watching the innocence and simplicity of joy on that little girl’s face. It was the same thing tonight. Watching Milah lose herself in the music so that I could feel what everyone else was experiencing was nothing short of spectacular. Realizing that I couldfeel, that I couldhearin my own way and experience music for the first time when I’d been empty without it.

And it pissed me off.

She pissed me off.

Because for the first time in years, I wanted something. I didn’t hate the music. I didn’t loathe her signing. I was entranced. I was turned the hell on for fuck’s sake. I wantedeverythingfrom Milah Iglesias. Her ridiculously kind soul. Her voice. God, how I want to hear her voice…. Her body. I wanted everything from her, and it pissed me off.

How many times have I been to the therapist? The audiologist? Sat through one of Anniston’s epic talks? More than I can count. And here Milah walks into my life with her sassy fucking attitude and stupid high heels that will eventually break her ankle, and she tears down barriers that no one else has managed to do in years.

This time, I didn’t want to run. Instead, I stayed, locked in her embrace, flashlights lighting her perfect body. I watched her ruby red lips mouth the words before I finally couldn’t take any more.

And now we’ll both pay the price for her thoughtfulness.

I’m done denying myself tonight. I’ll deal with the consequences tomorrow.

“Where’s your room?” I growl, yanking her to my chest and nudging so she knows to jump and wrap her legs around me. For a fleeting second, she looks unsure. Did I read the situation wrong?

“Up the stairs,” she says, pulling back enough so I can see her mouth. Then she jumps as much as she can with her heels, and I lift her to my waist by her ass, feeling its firmness in my hand. So firm that the first thing that races through my head is bending her over so I can palm both cheeks as I slam her onto my cock.

But first… “Are you sure you want to do this?” We’re about to cross a line—well, another line. But this line is bigger than her coming on my fingers. I want to be damn sure she’s ready to deal with the consequences of our actions, especially since I just envisioned controlling her with an iron grip on her ass. Those type of actions are sure to have consequences tomorrow.

Not that it will really affect her at school. If shit goes down with our relationship, it will be me who leaves Bleckley Elementary. Not her. She’s loved by the entire school. Sure, Dr. Parker and Anniston will be a little miffed at my behavior, but let’s be honest, the social experiment is essentially over. Dr. Parker won. I can admit I missed social interaction, and I’ve proved that I can now hold down a job. Well, that might not go over too well if I get fired, but you know what I mean. If I can keep my dick in my pants at my next job, I’ll be fine.

But I see Dr. Parker’s point.

I miss things.

And, yes, I can still enjoy most of the activities I used to when I had all five senses. Like exploring Milah’s body.

“Sí,” I think she says.

I narrow my eyes. “It’s harder for me to lip-read Spanish,” I tell her. “Or any other language but English.”

I speak fluent Spanish, Greek, and Hebrew but it’s different lipreading in different languages. The lips move too fast for me to catch it all. If I could hear her, this wouldn’t be an issue. But, alas, I can’t, so as much as I love the Spanish language, I’d rather she speak in English just so I can keep up. Asking her to change the way she communicates with me, which, by just admitting this, pisses me off.

“So, if I say, Quiero que te calles y me jodas, you won’t understand unless I sign?” she goads. Her words shoot straight to my dick.Shut up and fuck me. Good Gracious.

“I said, it’sharder, not impossible. Especially when you slow it down like you just did.”

Her cheeks heat with the faintest blush before she shrugs. “Duly noted.”

Uh-huh.Shut up and fuck me. This woman. If I wasn’t already rock-hard, I would certainly be now. I nip at her neck, the one part of the body that is underappreciated. For me, though, the neck is my source of sound. I can pick up her patterns of her breath, every lustful swallow, and every moan. I can gauge everything about Milah Iglesias just by her throat.

“Direct me to your room,” I demand, already finding the stairs and heading up like a man who has zero self-control left.

“It’s to the right after—”

“Use only your hands.” I instruct, eyeing her devilish lips, which are currently parted in an O shape. “The only thing you’re allowed to say from here on out is ‘Yes, sir.’ Are we clear?”

Her mouth purses as if she’s giving my demand great thought. “What about Papi? Can I say ‘Yes, Papi’?”

Of course, her calling me Papi made my dick twitch. How many of these fucking stairs are there? I shake my head. “If you must. But nothing else, got it?”

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