Page 28 of Sexted By a Stranger
The elevator doors closed, metal walls reflecting our side-by-side silhouettes.
"Nervous?"
"A little," she admitted honestly with a breath.
"You'll get used to it." My tone was reassuring. "Design is on the nineteenth floor. Harrington's the director—industry authority, straightforward personality, not hard to work with."
She nodded lightly, but that nervousness was still impossible to hide.
The elevator stopped at the top floor.
"Martha, this is Sheila Stella, my personal assistant. Show her the daily procedures and set up her access."
"Yes, Mr. Bellomo," Martha responded immediately, smiling at Sheila. "Miss Stella, please follow me."
Sheila nodded at me and walked toward Martha, her steps already steadier than in the lobby.
I didn't return to my office immediately but stopped at the floor-to-ceiling windows. Watching Martha explain my work habits to Sheila, she listened carefully, nodding occasionally, asking one or two questions, speaking calmly with clear logic.
Ten minutes later, I took Sheila to Design.
Watching her among strangers, discussing topics completely unrelated to me—even though it was just ordinary work conversation—possessiveness still rippled through me.
This dissatisfaction peaked when a young, overly enthusiastic designer guy handed her his card and invited her to discuss design concepts.
The designer looked at Sheila with naked heat, full of appreciation and interest.
"Seems you're adapting well." I stepped forward. The designer who'd been trying to chat instantly fell silent, backing away awkwardly.
Sheila completely missed the subtle atmosphere, still wearing a faint blush on her face. "The atmosphere here is great. Thank you for showing me around, Luca."
"Part of the job."
I pulled back my gaze, sweeping over the young man now burying his head in blueprints with red-tipped ears. My tone was bland as I closed a file. "Let's go. To your workstation."
I settled her in a private cubicle separated from mine by just one wall.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Central Park spread out below. The interior's one-way glass brought my office entrance into her line of sight. On the desk, a new computer andoffice supplies were neatly arranged, even including a crystal vase with a fresh rose.
She was clearly surprised.
"Close to me," I pulled out her chair, knuckles tapping the smooth desktop. "Also convenient for me to find you anytime."
She looked up, about to speak but hesitating, ear tips quietly blooming with color. Fingertips brushing the rose, she said softly, "It's beautiful."
Watching her fingertips touch the petals, my throat inexplicably tightened. Those late-night intimate scenes—her passionate eyes beneath me, delicate gasps, that slender waist I'd held in my palms—all began gnawing at my rationality.
I forced my gaze away. "Look over the project materials first. Any questions, line one goes straight to my office." With that, I turned toward my own heavy wooden door, not looking back at her.
One more glance and that prized self-control would completely collapse.
Sheila adapted faster than expected. Even Harrington spoke of her with approval when reporting to me. I didn't give her special treatment, but no matter how trivial the assigned tasks, she completed them meticulously, often working overtime voluntarily. That bone-deep stubbornness and drive made me admire her while also feeling a twinge of heartache.
One week later.
"Sheila."
"Luca?"
