Page 105 of Sexting His Assistant

“It is fine.”

I hold up the cloth. “I swear to God, Luka, if you say fine one more time, I’ll call Doctor Mirov.”

His eyes narrow. “You don’t have his number.”

“I’m an executive assistant. I have everyone’s number.”

That shuts him up.

He sits up. Carefully.

Pain moves across his face quickly, hidden almost as soon as it appears, but I see it. I kneel beside him on the mattress and peel back the edge of the bandage.

Blood doesn’t come pouring out of it right away. But the skin around it is an angry, bruised yellowish purple, the stitches still too fresh for what we just did. A wave of guilt hits me.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say quietly.

His gaze is on my face. “Yes.”

“And you definitely shouldn’t have done that.”

“No.”

“And I shouldn’t have let you.”

“You did more than let me.”

My hand stills.

I look up. He looks back.

The air shifts again, slow and immediate, like a match finding the last bit of oxygen in a room.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Don’t what?”

“Say things in that voice while I’m trying to medically supervise your bad decisions.”

“You’re cleaning the edge of a bandage with tap water.”

I make a face.

He breathes out something that’s almost a laugh.

I clean around the dressing as carefully as I can. His skin is warm under my fingers. Every time my knuckles brush his chest, his stomach tightens.

When I’m done, I smooth the bandage back down. “You should rest.”

“I am resting.”

“You’re sitting upright and judging my apartment.”

“I’m not judging your apartment.”

“You judged my bookshelf.”

“It’s unstable.”