Page 10 of Sexting His Assistant

I laugh once, short and humorless.

If only he knew.

At exactly six-fifty-eight, there is a knock on my door.

Not the building buzzer. My actual door.

I frown and walk over, already annoyed, and pull it open without checking the peephole.

Luka’s standing there, and for a second, I just stare.

He’s not in a suit anymore. He’s in a black coat over a charcoal shirt, no tie, the collar open at the throat. Dark trousers. Polished shoes. A watch that probably costs more than my car. He looks colder like this. Less corporate. More dangerous. More himself. The silver at his temples catches the hallway light, and something in my stomach drops hard enough to hurt.

Delicious is a stupid word.

Unfortunately, it is also the first one that comes to mind.

Luka’s gaze moves over me once. From my face to the dress to my legs and back up again.

Then it’s gone so fast I could almost pretend I imagined it. He looks away like he didn’t do it at all.

My grip tightens on the edge of the door.

Luka shifts his attention to my face and says, “You’re late.”

I blink. “I’m in my apartment.”

“You should have been downstairs.”

“I was not aware I worked for a chauffeur service.”

His gaze flicks past me into the apartment. “Were you planning to make me come in?”

My heart does one hard, ugly thud.

No, I think.

Yes, some weaker, more deranged part of me answers.

Instead I say, “You managed all by yourself.”

He watches me for a beat too long. “Get your things.”

I step back from the door and reach for my bag on the entry table. My phone lights up again in the process.

Daniil.

Luka sees the screen. He doesn’t say anything.

I slide the phone face down into my bag, lock the apartment, and turn to him. “You could have texted.”

“I did.”

I pull out my phone and check. There is, in fact, a message from him.

Downstairs. Two minutes.

Sent three minutes ago.