‘His mouth was trailblazing’

While hoping to return to medicine, Rachel Wellner is shopping a “semi-autobiographical” erotic novel starring a Jewish protagonist named Rory who has an Arabic love interest called Amir. “She falls in love with him and it becomes an explosive interracial relationship,” Wellner explains. Here, she shares an excerpt with The Post . . .

I stepped out, followed by a wake of steam, and heard a strange noise. Creaking? Banging? Maybe a pesky squirrel banging against a wall? Wait, that was not a scampering varmint; those were footsteps.

I reached for a towel and quickly dried my body, grabbed another towel and wrapped it around my head so I wouldn’t leave a dripping trail. I tiptoed out of the bathroom and located my ancient tennis racquet in the back of the closet, a pathetically preppy weapon, but all the knives were downstairs in the kitchen.

I heard the footsteps draw nearer. He was in my bedroom. It was only a matter of seconds ’til he would find me. “Rory?” A whisper.

At that moment I became acutely aware of the actual situation: I was standing in front of my teacher and superior in a towel. Amir was standing in my bedroom. And I had a chronic problem: keeping a towel tied around my body for any amount of time was well-nigh impossible.

Just as I perceived the towel unraveling, I desperately fumbled to close it . . . Too late — the wrap landed on the floor, and there I stood, naked. I reached down, horribly selfconscious, my breasts swinging like two bells ringing in this Insanely Awkward Moment.

Why didn’t I dive down, scoop up that towel? I was frozen. Amir’s eyes landed on the contour between my abdomen and my oblique muscles. I watched him watching me. I felt as if we were about to fight a duel — who would pull their weapon first? His seemed to be coming out of its scabbard. He yanked off his glasses, and dropped them on the nightstand. Then he advanced, swept me up like a bride, there went the babushka. My wet hair swung down over his arm. I was now wet everywhere.

He dropped me on the bed, leaned over me in push-up position, his biceps tensing, and lowered himself down along my body. His mouth was trailblazing between my breasts, moving down, down to my thighs, in a wave. Then he started to rise again, kissing along the way. He kissed my left thigh in a precise observational way, then my right, sampling every pore with maddening intensity.

His tongue was operating on my body. I felt wide open and defenseless. But wait. “Wait.” Yes, I was speaking. Was I prying his head from between my thighs? Why? Why was I doing that? This resistant version of me was the real intruder here.

Without thinking, I sat up, arms protecting my chest, legs crossed like a chastity belt. Against my conscious will, the drawbridge had closed.