Page 61 of Interpreter

I scoff.

He can’t hear me, but he understands me just fine. Just because he can’t hear the tone or inflection, he still can read the smart-ass radiating off my body.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” he demands, shoving my panties to the side and plunging his finger in, stealing my breath.

“Tell me, mi pequeña traviesa, my naughty little girl.” He adds another finger. “Tell me you’re sorry for making mehearyou.”

Is he still talking? I can’t tell, the tingling in my vajayjay is super distracting.

His chest is heaving against mine, and I push off the wall to get closer to him.

“No,” he grumbles, pinning me with his body flush against the wall. “Not until you say it.”

I grin into his chest.

“I’m sorry—” I start, and his mouth moves to my throat, listening, feeling the vibration of my words with his tongue. “I’m sorry you find me so irresistible.”

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 mewant. 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.

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