Page 39 of Sexting His Assistant

The silence after that feels terrible.

Because what if the person I need protection from is Luka? And what if the worse truth is that I don’t want protection at all?

I force brightness into my voice. “Well, tell your terrifying best friend to stop making me organize his ballerinas, heiresses, and emotionally unstable wine collectors.”

“He has a ballerina again?”

“Former ballerina.”

“Worse.”

“Exactly.”

“Did she throw something?”

“Not yet, but the week is young.”

“Sounds like him,” Misha says again, amused and resigned.

I smile faintly, even as my chest aches.

Yes. It does sound like him.

6

LUKA

I should throw them away.

That’s the first sensible thought I have after leaving the boardroom.

The second sensible thought is that I should call Nina back in, make it very clear that what happened was a mistake, and place enough distance between us that neither of us can confuse desire for permission again.

The third is that I should fire her.

Not because she deserves it. But because I no longer trust myself around her.

Instead, I walk into my office, close the door, and stand with my back to it for longer than I care to admit, listening to the faint activity beyond the glass. Assistants moving through the corridor. Phones ringing. Men speaking quietly, carefully, because this floor belongs to me and everyone on it knows better than to sound relaxed.

My office is still exactly as I left it this morning. Files squared on the desk. Coffee untouched. The city spread cold and silver beyond the windows. Everything ordered. Everything controlled.

Except me.

I take off my jacket and stop.

The weight in the inside pocket is nearly nothing, but I feel it as if it is a weapon.

Nina’s underwear.

A thin scrap of pale fabric I took from her body and put into my jacket as if I had any right to keep it. As if I’m twenty again, stupid with hunger and lacking discipline. As if I haven’t built an empire on the simple principle that wanting something is not the same as taking it.

I remove them from my pocket.

For a moment, I only look.

Delicate. Soft. Intimate in a way that feels more obscene now, alone in my office, than it did when she was trembling on my conference table with my mouth between her thighs.

I close my fist around them. I should throw them away.