Page 170 of Sexting His Assistant

The city moves around us, horns, engines, pedestrians crossing in front of the cars, and Nina is sitting beside me, trying to look composed while my fingers slide along the inside of her thigh.

I reach the edge of her underwear.

She closes her eyes for one second.

“Nina,” I say.

She opens them and looks at me.

I keep my voice low. “Do you want me to stop?”

Her grip on my wrist loosens. “No,” she says, barely audible.

The light turns green. I drive.

My hand stays between her thighs.

She grips the door handle with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other as I push her underwear aside. She’s already wet. Very wet. The discovery hits me hard enough that my hand tightens on the wheel.

She sees my jaw shift. “Don’t say anything,” she whispers.

“I was not going to.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I’m always thinking something.”

“Think about the road.”

“I am.”

I slide one finger through her slowly.

Her whole body goes still.

The city lights flash over her face, catching the way her mouth opens before she presses her lips together. I keep my eyes on traffic because I have to, but every sound she makes registers. Every small inhale. Every failed attempt to breathe normally.

I circle her clit with my fingertip.

She turns her face toward the window and mutters, “Oh my God.”

“Quiet.”

“You’re driving with one hand between my legs and telling me to be quiet?”

“Yes.”

“That’s unreasonable.”

I press a little harder.

Her head falls back against the seat. “I hate you,” she says, but there is no strength in it.

“No, you don’t.”

I slip one finger inside her.

She grabs my wrist again, not to stop me this time, only to hold on. Her body clenches around my finger, tight and hot, and I have to focus harder on the lane ahead than I have focused on most negotiations.