Page 107 of Sexting His Assistant

His eyes darken. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”

“You noticed.”

“I’m injured, not dead.”

That makes me laugh.

He kisses me while I’m still smiling.

It is slower this time.

His mouth moves over mine with a patience that feels deliberate, one hand warm on my thigh, then my hip, drawing me closer until my body is pressed against his. I touch his face, careful of his shoulder, careful of the bruises, and kiss him back with a softness I don’t know how to defend.

He slides his hand between my legs.

I gasp against his mouth.

“Already?” he murmurs.

I bite his lower lip. “Don’t be so smug.”

“I was born that way.”

“Tragic for everyone.”

“Mostly for you.”

I would have answered, but his fingers move, slow and sure, and the words disappear.

He touches me like he has all night, like the apartment doesn’t exist, like the world outside my bedroom has been reduced to one warm bed and the sounds I make into his mouth. I reach between us and find him hard again. His breath catches when I wrap my hand around him.

He kisses me harder.

We move awkwardly for a moment, careful with his shoulder, adjusting sheets, limbs, the angle of our bodies. He reaches for another condom from his wallet on the bedside table and struggles enough that I take it from him.

“Give it to me,” I say.

His eyes hold mine.

I open the packet and roll it onto him slowly, watching his jaw tighten.

“Careful,” he says.

I look up. “Now you believe in caution?”

“Selectively.”

“Of course.”

He pulls me closer, lifting my thigh over his hip, and then he’s pressing into me again.

Sideways like this, facing each other, it feels different. Deeper in a way that makes me grip his good shoulder and bury my face near his throat as he pushes inside. My body is still tender from earlier, but ready for him, and the stretch makes me breathe out hard against his skin.

He stops once he’s fully inside me.

For a few seconds, neither of us moves.

His forehead rests against mine.