Page 31 of Sexting His Assistant

Then she breaks.

Her hips jerk against my mouth, her body arching off the conference table as a strangled sound leaves her throat. Her pussy pulses around my fingers, wet and tight, and I keep licking her clit through every wave until the pleasure turns too much and she starts trembling uncontrollably beneath me.

Only then do I slow.

I soften my tongue against her, drawing out the last aftershocks, feeling her shake and gasp and try weakly to close her thighs. I let her, for a moment. Then I press one final kiss to the inside of her thigh, away from the swollen, oversensitive heat of her, and withdraw my fingers.

She lies there wrecked and breathing hard, dress bunched at her hips, hair loosened around her face, eyes unfocused when they finally find mine.

I rise slowly. My mouth is wet with her.

Her gaze drops to it before she can stop herself.

For one dangerous second, I think she wants me to kiss her.

But I don’t. I just take out my handkerchief and clean my fingers with steady hands, because steadiness is the only lie I have left. Then I lower her dress myself, covering what I’ve just ruined, and lean close to her ear.

“I simply gave you a taste of your own fantasy.”

5

NINA

For a long moment after Luka leaves, I don’t move.

I stay exactly where he left me, half sitting, half collapsed on the edge of the conference table, my dress pulled back down over my thighs, my notebook lying open beside my hip, my phone glowing uselessly near my hand, and my entire body still humming from his mouth as if he’s left something electric under my skin.

The door clicks shut behind him.

He wipes his mouth before he goes.

That’s the part my mind chooses to replay, because apparently humiliation is not enough for me unless it comes with cinematic detail. Luka Kazan, standing over me in that immaculate black suit, expression unreadable, mouth wet from me, taking out his handkerchief with those steady, elegant hands and wiping himself clean like he’s just finished an expensive glass of wine rather than dragging an orgasm out of me on a conference table.

Then he says that line.

I simply gave you a taste of your own fantasy.

And then he leaves.

As if I’m not still shaking.

As if my pussy is not still throbbing so hard I can feel every aftershock of what he did every time I shift my hips. As if my thighs are not trembling around empty air, as if my body has not become one enormous betrayal, as if I’m not sitting on a table where twelve board members were discussing acquisition risk twenty minutes ago with Luka Kazan’s fingerprints metaphorically all over my dignity.

I press both palms flat to the table and try to breathe like a woman who has not just been eaten out by her boss during office hours.

My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, my lower stomach. My skin feels too hot beneath my dress. My mouth is dry. My hair has slipped loose from the clip at the back of my head, strands falling around my face in a way that probably makes me look exactly like what I am: a woman who has been thoroughly, expertly ruined in a room with glass walls and a security lock.

I glance toward the wall of darkened glass opposite the table.

The room is designed to give privacy when the panels are dimmed, but they still catch reflections faintly, especially under the overhead lights. I see myself there in pieces. A beige dress smoothed down too hastily. Bare knees pressed together. One heel hanging from my foot. My hair loosened around my cheeks, dark and messy against skin that is still flushed. My lips are parted. My eyes look too large in my face, almost startled, as if I have just met a version of myself I don’t recognize.

I’m not beautiful the way Luka’s women are beautiful.

I’m not Alina Karelin with her cream silk and impossible cheekbones. I’m not Yelena with her perfect nails and glossy hair. I’m not one of those women who enters a restaurant as if someone has already arranged the lighting for her benefit.

I press both hands over my eyes and make a sound that’s not a scream but definitely related to one.

This cannot be my life.