Page 108 of Sexting His Assistant

My hand is on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under my palm.

“Okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes. I’m okay.”

“Good.”

Then he starts moving.

It’s not rough this time. It’s slow, controlled, almost lazy, his hips rolling into mine in strokes that make my toes curl under the sheet. He keeps one hand on my ass, holding me close, guiding the angle. I can feel every inch of him like this. Every push. Every retreat. Every time his breath changes when I clench around him.

He kisses me between movements.

My mouth. My jaw. The corner of my lips when I turn my head to breathe.

I try to keep things light because if I let it become too serious, I’ll start thinking about what this means.

“So,” I say, breathless, “is this your version of bed rest?”

His mouth moves against my neck. “Doctor-approved.”

“Doctor Mirov would shoot you.”

“He’s a doctor.”

“He probably owns a gun. Everyone around you owns a gun.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“We’ll fix that.”

I pull back enough to glare at him. “We absolutely will not.”

He thrusts a little deeper.

My glare fails.

His mouth curves. “We’ll discuss it later.”

“We will not.”

He kisses me again, swallowing whatever else I was going to say. The rhythm stays slow, but my body starts to tighten anyway. It’s impossible not to. He knows where to touch me now, knows how to tilt his hips, knows when to slow down and when to push deep enough that I forget the sentence I’m trying to form.

I’m close when the question rises before I can stop it.

The real one.

The one that has been waiting under everything.

I open my eyes and look at him. “So you’re not the father?”

He stills. Inside me.

His face changes immediately. “No,” he says. The single word comes calmly, but his hand tightens on my hip.

I swallow. “Then why’s she saying you are?”