My hand found purchase around Maisie’s throat, my thumb sliding, slicked by shower water, along the pounding artery that attested to her excitement. As I tightened my grip, the smile on her freckled face faltered, her top lip curling in a way I was starting to recognize as the mid-point between pleasure and pain.
“Be careful,” she whispered. Her hands found my chest, nails scratching me. “Scotland’s a haunted land. Us Scottish girls turn into ghosts like that.” She found the wherewithal to snap her fingers, though the shower around us deadened the sound. “If you go too far, I will fucking haunt your arse.”
My grip must have slackened at that point because she grinned and added: “But that don’t mean you should go easy on me either.” That earned her a kiss.
Let’s back up, shall we? How was it that I, a relatively unassuming college professor, rapidly and unapologetically approaching middle age, the kind of woke feminist SJW white knight cultural Marxist CRT-pushing hack who haunts your cryptofascist aunt’s Facebook page, ended up in a shower, naked (needless to say), with a twenty-year old Scottish girl (equally naked), and my hand around her neck?