Page 20 of Hard Limits

“So you can eat?”

“And when are you planning to eat?”

“I guess…after I get home?”

“Is there something wrong with the food here that you’re not telling me about?”

“No, but—”

“Did you expect me to send you to eat in the kitchen like Cinderella?”

Nail. Head. That was exactly what Meera had expected. Brax touched a hand to the small of her back, and she jolted as if he were wearing an Electro-Sex massage mitten, then bit that damn lip again. At that moment, he half hoped she would quit because this…this could be a problem. Meera was a hot mess of nerves, fire, and intellect, all wrapped up in satiny skin and a purple sequined cocktail dress.

“You’re eating with me, Meera.”

Be still his twitching cock.

CHAPTER 8

THE ASSISTANT

“More wine, ma’am?”

“No, thank you. Just water.”

I hadn’t intended to drink any wine at all, but I’d figured one glass with food wouldn’t hurt. Okay, two. Wine had been out of my budget for months, and while my father forbade me to consume alcohol, I’d developed a taste for Chardonnay at college.

Beside me, Mr. Vale was talking to yet another boring politician, a grey-haired Texan who loved both golf and the sound of his own voice. My father played golf, which was enough of a reason for me to hate it. My back still burned from my bossy boss’s touch, and I was afraid to check in the mirror in case he was the devil and his palm print had been branded onto my skin. I mean, it was possible. He sure did know how to sin.

I took a sip of ice water, but it did nothing to cool me down. Was I sick? My belly felt fluttery, and I pressed my thighs together to ease the throbbing in my core, all the time racking my brain for something, anything from my medical textbooks that might explain these symptoms. Low blood sugar? Food poisoning?

And why had I worn this freaking dress? Both of the choices Teresa had offered fit perfectly, but the black Versace number had a deep slash between my breasts that made me uncomfortable. I mean, what if everyone stared? So I’d chosen the backless option, only for Mr. Vale and his wandering hands to come along.

Discreetly, I glanced at my watch. Nearly nine p.m., and we still had the dessert, the auction, and half of the speeches to go. Hell, some folks hadn’t even finished their entrée. I’d have to spend precious money on a cab, and I’d miss my call with Meera, and what was I even doing here? Mr. Vale half expected me to quit—he’d said as much. So why didn’t I? He had a sex den in his basement, plus he was dangerous. No, not “serial killer” dangerous, but “tear out your heart, stomp it into wet sand, and flambé the soggy remains” dangerous. Prior to starting this job, I’d had zero involvement with men like him, but after the Lance Clifton experience, I was learning to trust my intuition.

And my intuition told me that while Mr. Vale was an asshole with kinks I couldn’t even begin to understand, he was unlikely to wave his schlong at me in his office and expect my undying admiration. Plus he was married. That had to count for something, right?

So why was I beside him and not his wife?

His whole life was weird.

He’d also remembered my name tonight. What did that mean?

Decisions, decisions… The job paid well, and his other staff seemed happy. Even Jayme with her lollipops and schoolgirl outfit. And although the schoolgirl fantasy was kind of gross, at least her client was indulging his desires with a willing partner over the age of eighteen instead of hanging around the gates of the local high school or grooming teenagers online. Or worse, flying them to a private island to give his friends massages.

“Holy crap!”

Someone swore at the table behind us, and the curse was closely followed by the tinkle of a glass shattering as it hit the polished wooden floor. On instinct, I swivelled in my seat to look, then chided myself because staring was rude and whoever had dropped the glass would be embarrassed enough already. I was about to turn back when I realised one of the guests was clutching her throat, an older lady wearing pearls and a demure dress I’d have sold my soul for.

Oh, shit. She was choking!

Nobody else seemed to be moving, so I shoved my chair back and ran around the table. I might have been relatively clueless when it came to office politics and sex and fathoming out what Mr. Vale was thinking, but I was well-versed in how to perform abdominal thrusts, formerly known as the Heimlich manoeuvre.

First, I gave her five back blows, and when nothing dislodged, I wrapped my arms around her, grasped my fist, and pressed hard into her abdomen, once, twice, three times, before a lump of what looked like chicken flew across the table and she began coughing.

“Is there anything still stuck?”

She shook her head no, clutching at the hand of the man next to her, presumably her husband. Her skin was pale, which was hardly surprising—choking in front of two hundred people must have been quite a shock.

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