Page 106 of Sexting His Assistant

“It has personality.”

“It has structural problems.”

“You have structural problems.”

He looks at me. “Several.”

I shake my head in disbelief, and toss the cloth toward the bedside table. It misses and lands on the floor.

Luka looks at it.

I point at him. “Not a word.”

“I said nothing.”

“You thought something.”

“Oh, I thought many things.”

I roll my eyes and reach across him for the cloth.

He catches my wrist.

I freeze.

His grip is light. He’s not stopping me. Not really. But the moment his fingers close around me, my entire body remembers what those hands felt like on my hips.

His thumb moves once over the inside of my wrist.

My breath turns shallow.

“Nina,” he says.

I hate how much he can do with my name.

I look at his mouth. Then his eyes. Then the bed beneath us, still messy, still warm.

“This is a bad idea,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You could tear your stitches.”

“Probably.”

“You are supposed to be recovering.”

“I have been recovering for two weeks.” His mouth curves faintly. “Come here.”

“No.” But I’m already moving.

That’s the humiliating part.

I let him pull me down beside him, slow enough that I can pretend I’m making choices like a dignified adult. He doesn’t climb over me this time. He turns onto his uninjured side with some care, facing me, his good arm sliding around my waist under the sweater.

The position is strange at first, being incredibly intimate.

We’re lying face to face, close enough that his breath touches my mouth, close enough I can feel the heat of his body without the violence of earlier. His injured arm stays tucked carefully between us. I shift closer before I can stop myself, and his hand moves down my back to the bare skin of my thigh where the sweater has ridden up.