Page 227 of Sexting His Assistant

I look up. “Yes?”

She swallows. “You don’t have to.”

I say, “I know.”

Her eyes darken.

I hook my fingers into the waistband of her shorts and wait.

She lifts her hips slightly.

I draw the shorts down slowly and set them aside. She is bare underneath, and the sight of her open to me in the low lamplight almost breaks every disciplined thought I have left. I keep one hand on her thigh, grounding both of us, and lean down to kiss her through the first shiver.

She exhales shakily.

I use my mouth gently at first, pressing slow kisses over her, letting her settle into the feeling rather than taking too much too soon. Her thighs ease apart, and I slide my hands beneath them, holding her carefully, spreading her just enough to taste her properly.

She’s warm and wet against my tongue.

The first slow stroke makes her breath catch.

I do it again.

Then again, finding the rhythm that makes her body soften into the mattress instead of tightening against it. I keep my movements steady, unhurried, my tongue moving over her clit with patient pressure, my mouth closing around her softly when she starts to tremble.

Nina whispers, “Oh.”

That one small sound goes straight through me.

I lift my eyes to her face while I continue. Her head is turned slightly to one side on the pillow, eyes closed now, lips parted, the lines of fear slowly leaving her forehead. One hand comes down to my hair, not pulling, only resting there as if she needs to feel that I’m real.

I slide one finger inside her carefully.

Her hips shift toward my mouth.

I keep my other hand firm on her thigh. “Easy.”

Nina says, “I’m okay.”

I believe her, but I still keep it slow.

My finger moves in a gentle rhythm while my tongue circles her clit, and gradually her breathing changes from anxious and uneven to soft, broken pleasure. The room is quiet except for that, her breath, the faint sound she makes when I curl my finger inside her, the rustle of the sheet under her hand.

This isn’t like the times we’ve had sex before.

This is quieter, more intimate, and somehow more dangerous because it feels like care, and care has always been the thing I avoided naming.

I add a second finger only when her body is ready for it.

Nina moans softly, then winces a little.

I stop at once. “Head?”

She opens her eyes, dazed and annoyed. “No. Don’t stop.”

I say, “Answer properly.”

Nina breathes out. “My head is fine.”