Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  His chest rumbles.

  He has no idea what I said since I didn’t sign and he wasn’t looking at my lips, but he knows me well enough by now to know I did not say I was sorry for making him hear or whatever bullshit he wanted me to say. He knows I said something sassy.

  “You drive me crazy,” he adds before nipping my bottom lip. His fingers draw lazily in and out of my body as if he’s feeling every inch on his own time. Mr. Lambros is taking his fucking time, adding a little pressure here, easing out a little bit there.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” I moan, but Tim can’t see my lips. His eyes are laser focused in the small space between our bodies where his hand disappears inside my skirt.

  I lift his chin. “You’re teasing me.”

  His eyes are hungry, and it almost pushes me over the edge. “I’m happy to deliver some payback.” Long fingers that spanned over the piano keys so fluidly crook inside me and steal my breath.

  “Oh God,” I say to no one. “Don’t stop.”

  Tim notices me speaking, and he wedges his knee between my legs, almost like a nice muscled bench. And then he places his free hand on my throat just like he did earlier when I was singing, and he fingerfucks me in Felipe’s cozy corner until my back arches and a feeling of warmth washes over me, leaving shivers in its wake. I come epically on this man’s fingers as his hand clenches around my throat. Not choking but feeling. He’s literally feeling my orgasm from the inside out.

  His fingers slow their pumps as he eases them out, the new hollowness aching for something bigger. Something warmer. Something life changing. But I don’t want to seem needy, so I go with “Thanks for coming tonight and, you know, making me come tonight.”

  Oh my God. That was worse than I intended.

  Tim’s finger drags my wetness up my thigh, skipping over my dress until he reaches my throat. And then as if he’s marking me, he smears the wetness at the hollow. For a moment, he just stares at it, but then, as if he’s made up his mind, his eyes close and he licks up the base of my throat, exploring the indention where his finger smeared the remnants of my orgasm. And then he growls out, “Where’s your room?”

  Radio host: Do you Skype each other to communicate rather than calling?

  Penelope: We do. We also text more, which I don’t love. I’m much slower at it than Timaeus.

  Radio host: I believe it. I have a six-year-old daughter who can text better than I can.

  Penelope: It’s crazy, right? But more than texting just being impersonal, I miss the sweet sound of his voice. And his laugh.

  Radio host: You’re killing me, Penelope. I can’t imagine never hearing my little girl call me “Dad.”

  Penelope: It’s a humbling experience for sure. For a while I would try to remember what everything sounded like. I became obsessed to the point that, while I was trying to remember, I forgot that I could still joke around with my son and still “hear” the sarcasm in his voice just by watching his eyebrows and the little twitch of his cheek.

  Radio host: Would you say that your other senses are heightened?

  Penelope: Umm… in a way. But mostly, I think that you learn to interpret body language more, so you take in every element floating around in the conversation. A smell. A touch. A smile. They all play a part in communicating. I just needed to remember that communicating wasn’t all about speaking.

  I’d learned to hate music. I didn’t miss it or find myself longing. No, it simply ceased to exist anymore.

  Until Ms. Peak forced me to feel it. But even then, I didn’t feel the music like I did with Milah. Sure, I found the rhythm and found that when I played, I could still remember the sound, but it didn’t feel like what Milah just did. What Milah just did made me want. I wanted more than ever to hear her voice. Her throat, the strength and power of the vibrations, told me she is an incredible singer.

  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 could feel, that I could hear in 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 wanted everything from 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’s harder, 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?”

  She nods, a little smug with her negotiating skills. I know she won’t abide by our agreement. I doubt she really understands why I’ve asked her not to speak. I bet she thinks it’s some kind of kinky game where I play alpha, but it isn’t. My reasoning is much darker.

  I haven’t had sex since I lost my hearing. I don’t know what I sound like when I come or when I’m talking dirty. I don’t plan to ask her many questions, and so she shouldn’t need to say much. Less is more tonight. The only sounds she should be making is that of pleasure.

  My steps falter just thinking of the possibility of how I might sound, and Milah catches it, eyeing me warily, that crease between her brows prominent. “Are you going to drop me? Because that will totally disappoint me. Your arms—” She shakes her head and frowns. “—look like they could bench press a boat. If you drop me, it’ll kill my fantasy and quite possibly scar me for life. I’m not that heavy.”

  I shake my head. She is fucking exasperating. “I’m not going to drop you. I could squat three of you and still not break a sweat.”

  “Someone’s confident.”

  “Someone isn’t following directions. What did I tell you? I only want to hear—”

  “Yes, Papi,” she cuts me off with a grin. “Just wait until I tell Felipe. He’s been dying to call Marcus Papi, but he won’t let him. He’s going to be so jealous.”

  Have mercy. Why am I smiling at this ridiculousness?

  I refocus her with, “Directions. Now,” and she nods quickly, still not smothering the confident grin on her face. Has she been waiting for this moment as long as I have?

  Hands tug at my shirt, and I pause. “What are you doing?”

  She doesn’t stop, pulling my shirt up and through our bodies. “You said to show you with my hands. You didn’t say where my hands had to be.”

  And… I’m seconds from fucking her on the stairs.

  This she knows as she nestles her hands on my chest, drawing fucking arrows to signal my next turn. She’s going to need restraining at some point, I can feel it. This woman follows directions as good as Aspen eats with a fork.

  Her hands have stopped drawing and end with a soft pinch to my nipple that has me thinking I should have jerked off in the shower before I came. The need to own her, to shut her up with a thrust so deep… yeah, I definitely should have jerked off earlier.

  “This is me,” she mouths, and for the first time, I realize we are in a loft with exposed brick and a kitchen that looks as if it’s never been used.

  Fuck. I was so focused on her touching me that I didn’t realize we were already through the front door.

  “You share this with Felipe?” Why did I expect something a little edgier?

  She nods. “Did you think we would have a stripper pole in the center of the living room?”

  I laugh. “No, I expected a workout room with mirrors and a pole in the center of that room. I have to say, I’m a little disappointed.”

  Breaking eye contact, Milah throws her head back, her laughter causing her whole body to shake in my hands. I hold onto her tighter until she stops and levels an amused gaze at me. “Felipe wanted one, but when I moved in, it sort of killed that dream. I guess when I move out, he can revisit the idea.”

  “Are you moving out?” This is news. I figured, if she was house hunting, she would have said something at least. We’ve been sharing small details and getting to know one another lately.

  “Oh.” She looks away for a moment, and as if she remembers I can’t see her lips, she turns her head back slowly. “I just mean eventually. I can’t live with Felipe forever. He and Marcus will eventually want their privacy. That’s all.”

  Right. Or one day she’ll find a guy who can’t wait to move her into a house and fill her with babies. She won’t live with Felipe forever.

  Both of us stand at her bedroom door frowning and totally killing the fucking vibe we had earlier.

  “Hey,” she says, holding my jaw with her fingers. “Let’s not think tonight, okay?”

  Right. Let’s finish making bad decisions.

  “Okay, Papi?” she urges.

  At that stupid moniker, I grin and nod and twist the handle to her bedroom door. “Remember,” I warn, “no talking.”

  Like an eager student, she nods excitedly. “Got it. No talking.”

  No way is she going to keep her mouth shut. I think it’s physically impossible. Either way, I deal with it by entering her bedroom and tossing her onto the perfectly made bed. I guess she’s just as organized at home as she is in her classroom. “You have two seconds to move anything you don’t want damaged out of the way,” I warn.

  At the word damaged, her eyes go big, and I almost laugh. But I know from my mother, throw pillows aren’t to be slept on, even if they do make the best TV trays for a late-night snack. Milah quickly tosses a couple pillows off the bed and pulls the duvet back. When she looks around and ponders what else, I decide her two seconds are up and lunge, grabbing her by the ankles and flipping her over onto her back. “Take your shoes off,” I tell her, turning on her bedside lamp. “I don’t need you breaking an ankle, no matter how good they look against my back.”

  She frowns. “What is it with you and me breaking an ankle? I told you I—”

  “I told you not to speak, Ms. Iglesias. Now would you like to take them off or would you like me to?”

  I know before she even says a word that I’m going to remove them. “Don’t move,” I tell her for no good reason since, clearly, she is not obedient in any way. She props her stiletto onto my chest, and I narrow my eyes. She’s horrible at being submissive.

  I unbuckle the gold clasp and slide her small foot out of the shoe and then do the same to the other. She looks forlorn as I drop them to the floor. “What is it with you and heels?” I ask her. Obviously, she loves them.

  She worries her lip with her finger before remembering that I need to see her mouth clearly. “I feel prettier with them on.” She shrugs. “More confident.”

  Confident. She feels more confident with high heels on. I swallow. If there ever was a time to be exposed, now is it. Milah has splayed herself open for me, to help me feel confident at school. Why haven’t I done the same for her? Why does she feel like she needs these shoes as a security blanket?

  “You don’t need those fucking shoes,” I tell her, placing a kiss to the inside of her foot. “You’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Her gaze is steady and strong, so I keep going while she’s quiet. “There’s nothing about you that needs enhancing. You’re goddamned perfect.”

  I knead up her thighs, watching as her breath falters. “These thighs have been teasing me a
ll evening. You wore this dress—this slit…” I snatch the fabric up her waist roughly. “Just so you could taunt me. Tell me, amor. Tell me that you purposely try to drive me crazy.”

  Later, I will think about why the fuck I suddenly became so chatty when I was hell-bent on a silent fuck with my coworker.

  Milah’s back arches underneath my fingertips as I toy with the black scrap of fabric that she’s using for underwear. I tug at the edge when she bites on her finger. “Put your hands above your head.” I don’t need my view obstructed.

  She does, albeit slowly. I yank her panties for added incentive.

  “Okay! Fine!” She raises her hands above her head finally. “Just know I only did it so fast because those are my good panties.” Her chest expands, pushing her tits higher.

  “And?” I probe, tugging again.

  Her eyes narrow to slits. “And I love driving you crazy,” she moves her hand to point to me, and I snatch the black lace down further, exposing her bare pussy. She hurries and puts her arms above her head again. “But only because you drive me crazy too.”

  I do. I love fucking with her.

  Happy with her admission, I release her panties and slide them down her thighs, kissing the exposed flesh of her pussy as I go. When the offending material is finally off and she lies spread, her tanned skin against the white of the fabric, I slip her panties into my pocket and just admire the beauty of the woman before me—more vulnerable than she’s ever been in my presence. Reaching back, I grasp the back collar of my shirt, pulling the material up and over my head in one swoop. I can just make out Milah’s choppy breaths as her chest rises and falls harshly.

  “Can I unbutton your pants?” she says, her hands signing along when she sits up.

  “Did I say you could sit up?”

  She rolls her eyes, already reaching for my pants. “I’m undoing these pants. You got to do mine and, well, you’re not having all the fun tonight.”

  I sigh and take a step closer so I’m within reach of her hands. “Are you going to be difficult the whole evening?” I’ll admit, my dick is throbbing to get out and into her hands.