Page 63 of Sexting His Assistant

When did it change?

Not today. That would be easier to condone.

Not in the boardroom. Not when her message appeared on my phone. Not when I lifted her onto the table and let desire win over sense.

It changed before that.

Quietly. Dangerously.

A remark over coffee that made me laugh before I could stop myself. The way she learned the business faster than men twice her age. The first time she corrected a board member without raising her voice and left him apologizing to her. The red lipstick she wore to a winter gala where I spent two hours pretending not to notice her mouth. The morning she walked into my office, called me impossible, and fixed my entire schedule while senior staff waited outside like frightened schoolboys.

At some point, the girl who wanted to follow us down forbidden hallways became a woman I watched.

And today, she became a woman I touched.

My grip tightens around Misha’s shoulder.

He glances at me. “Pain?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Nina’s steps falter behind us.

I don’t turn around.

We reach the upstairs floor. My suite occupies the west wing of the estate because I prefer distance, quiet, and exits. Misha pushes the door open with his foot and helps me inside with the practical roughness of a man who has carried me wounded before and does not intend to make ceremony out of it.

The bedroom is already lit.

Low lamps. Fire in the grate. Heavy curtains drawn against the night. Dark walls, pale sheets, clean lines, old wood. A large bed I have slept in alone for years without thinking much about it.

Until Nina steps inside.

Then I think about it.

Unfortunately.

She pauses just inside the door, still holding her coat, eyes moving around the room despite the guarded set of her face. Curiosity survives shock, then. Good. I would rather see curiosity than the hollow terror she wore in the garage.

Misha steers me toward the bed and drops me onto it with more force than necessary.

Pain tears through my shoulder.

I breathe out hard through my nose.

Nina takes one step forward. “Careful.”

Misha looks at her. “He’s survived worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to throw him like luggage.”

Misha rolls his eye.

I sit against the headboard, waiting for the room to stop shifting at the edges. The bandage pulls tight over the wound. My shoulder pulses with each heartbeat. My mother has disappeared to deal with the staff, though I know she is close enough to return the moment she feels needed.

Misha turns to me. “What do you want to eat?”