Page 81 of Interpreter

We both go silent when the sponge lands on the hood in one glorious splat. Wide-eyed, I stare on in horror as the bubbles and water droplets drip delicately through the scruff on his face.

Fuck.

“I—”

He holds up that damn finger and the word “One” comes out gravelly and… oh my God. It’s just hot as fuck. I can’t even pull myself together to realize he has grabbed the water hose and his jaw is clenching while he places the hose on top of the hood, warning me.

“Two.”

His chest heaves with the word, and his pec flexes as if it were the exclamation mark.

Felipe would want to see this. Really, he has a thing with pecs and—“Three.”

“Why are you still counting?”

I hope I seem confident, and I know this sounds shitty, but I’m glad he couldn’t hear the crack in my voice when I asked the question. My vajayjay clenched a little and well, you know how that goes.

“Four.”

Okay, great. Now I have questions. Is he counting to five or ten? What happens when he gets to said number?

“I recommend you take your shoes off,” he warns. “I’d hate for them to get ruined.” His tongue swipes out again, moisturizing that damn lip. I’m definitely buying him some lip balm. This natural moisturizing is not good for either of us.

“F—”

“Wait!” I stop his counting, deciding he’s right. These are good shoes. No need in them suffering when I was the one that got us into this mess. Although, I do owe them a cleaning for the whole soggy ground thing. Ugh.

I slip off the designer heels and place them neatly next to a tire, the only barrier between me and Mr. Lambros.

“Okay, I’m—”

“Five.”

Before I can wonder if he was counting to five or ten, Tim leaps over the hood of the car, water hose in hand, and snags me around the waist, pushing me against the car with his body.

I’m telling you, his heaving chest and bubble-soaked body pressed against mine is not at all sexy.

“That’s not fair!” I push against his body, and he grabs my wrist, stopping me.

A grunt hangs between us as he halts my wiggling with a knee between my legs.

Oh, hello. That feels amazing. Just a little to the left.

“What’s not fair,” he begins, pressing my wrist down by my side, “is having to stare at your nipples and not fucking you against my car for everyone to see.”

Oh. Well. I think I can get on board with where this is going. Mami could use an orgasm like yesterday.

“You cannot see my nipples through this shirt,” I say, correcting his earlier lie. It’s a statement meant to calm my nerves and de-escalate the situation. What I really want to say is“No shit? You really wanted to fuck me against the car?”

But I don’t, because I’m supposed to be mad at him. And he really is lying. My clothes are completely appropriate for little eyes. Except for the current cami I’m in because I was hot in Cal’s car. Dammit. I left my sweater in his car.

Tim’s eyes never leave my lips. Since I can’t sign, (see: him restraining me in a completely kinky way) I make sure I enunciate every syllable.

Those well-moisturized lips smirk down at me right before freezing cold water hits my chest, stealing my breath. “Ah! What the h—”

I wiggle, pushing against his knee that has finally hit the damn mark.

“You see, Mami”—he presses the trigger a little and water oozes from the hose and onto my breasts—“I’m not lying.” More water soaks through my shirt, and dammit, I groan.

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