Page 292 of Sexting His Assistant

“They have suddenly begun working too hard today?”

“Yes.”

“Mother.”

“Be good,” she says. Then she leaves.

I stand behind my desk, watching Nina.

She listens too.

When the last car pulls away, she turns back to me. “Finally,” she says, “the house is quiet.”

“The servants are still here,” I say.

“No,” Nina says. “Your mom gave them the day off.”

I raise a brow. “Why?”

She walks toward me.

Slowly.

The softness in her face changes into something warmer, direct and deliberate, and my body understands before my mind lets itself.

“So that we can be alone,” she says.

My pulse drops low. “Nina.”

She stops in front of my desk. “What?”

“You’re still recovering.”

“I’m recovered.”

“Mirov said⁠—”

“Mirov cleared me three days ago.”

“For normal activity.”

She places both hands on the desk and leans forward enough that the neckline of her dress shifts, showing the upper curve of her breasts.

My hand tightens at my side.

She notices.

Of course she notices.

Her eyes drop to my hand, then lift back to my face. “I missed you.”

“We have been in the same house.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

I know exactly what she means.

For two weeks, I have slept badly with her in the next wing. I have touched her carefully, kissed her carefully, held her carefully, treated her like if I put my hands on her the way I wanted, I would become another danger she had to survive.