Page 29 of Sexting His Assistant

“You understand what you are asking for?” I say.

She continues to remain silent, her fingers curling around the wooden desk.

“I’m not a child anymore, Luka. You can’t bully me,” she breathes, but her pupils are dilated.

Fuck, she wants me.

“No,” I say, and let my gaze travel over her face, the curve of her mouth, the pulse fluttering at her throat. “You are not.”

Her eyes darken. But I don’t kiss her.

I want to, which is precisely why I don’t.

A kiss is not simple. A kiss represents tenderness. It opens doors I have spent years keeping barred.

What I’m about to do is already dangerous enough.

I take the notebook from her hand and place it beside the tablet. Then I turn her gently until her back meets the edge of the conference table.

I put one hand at her waist.

Her breath catches. Still, she does not move away.

My other hand slides to the back of her thigh, just above her knee. Her lashes flutter once, and her hand grips my forearm, not to push me away but to steady herself. That small touch does more damage to my restraint than any word could have.

I lift her.

She gives a small, startled sound as I set her on the edge of the conference table, her skirt riding up just enough to reveal the smooth line of her thighs. Her hands go behind her, palms flat against the polished wood. She’s sitting on the table where men twice her age spent the last hour discussing money and power, and she looks more dangerous than all of them combined.

I stand between her knees.

She looks at me like she knows she should stop this, but she does nothing. I move slowly, deliberately, my hands resting on her knees first, then sliding higher. Her thighs tense beneath my palms. Her breathing changes, uneven now, shallow enough that I can see the rise and fall of her chest beneath her dress.

I push the hem upward.

Inch by inch.

Her fingers curl against the table, but she opens for me before I have to make her. The movement is slight, almost shy, but unmistakable. Her knees part. Her gaze stays locked on mine, embarrassed and heated and too proud to look away.

The last of my patience fractures.

I lower myself in front of her.

Her body goes still for one suspended second as she realizes exactly what I intend to do.

Then her thighs part wider.

No protest. No hesitation.

Only that silent, trembling permission that sends something dark and possessive through my chest.

I hook my fingers into her underwear and draw it down her legs. Slowly at first, because I want to watch her realize there’s no pretending after this. The delicate fabric slips past her knees, her calves, her ankles. I place it in my jacket pocket without taking my eyes off her.

Her lips part. No words come.

Good. Words would ruin this.

I grip her thighs and pull her closer to the edge of the table.