Page 54 of Hard Limits

But was it? Whatever had happened, it obviously still bothered him. And if he’d been fragile mentally back then, it might explain his involvement with Carissa. She was just the type of woman to take advantage that way.

I tried a smile, because what else could I do? “Well, if you ever need a second career, people would line up to hire you as a decorator.”

“It might come to that.”

I laughed, but he didn’t. And as I curled up in bed that night, I recalled the tortured look on his face. Mr. Vale had a secret: he wasn’t as strong as he liked to make out. And as his assistant, I wasn’t about to let anyone exploit that weakness.

Including myself.

Sunday morning found us back at the airport. The crisis was over, and the New York branch of Nyx would reopen tomorrow. It was time to go home.

The trip had shown me different sides of Mr. Vale—the down-to-earth man who’d muck in to help with repairs, the reluctant husband who put on a mask for the world, the asshole with a wicked sense of humour.

When I’d finally given in yesterday and asked what the potty chair was for, he’d said it was a sample, and what did I think of the idea of a themed crèche? Only when I appeared suitably shocked did he crack a smile.

I shoved him before I could stop myself. “You jackass.”

“You actually thought I was serious? We have rules here: no kids, no animals. Unless you count the leather sheep in room three.”

“A leather sheep? Is this another joke?”

“No.”

“It has to be.”

“A very special guest requested it. Go take a look if you want to.”

He wasn’t kidding. Sheesh. Mr. Vale had let me meander around in the basement freely on our visit, so perhaps he’d decided I no longer needed protecting? Or maybe he realised I’d changed inside? I was no longer the same woman who’d left Clifton Packaging. I felt braver, more confident.

“That still doesn’t answer my question about the potty,” I said when I came back.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Vale handed me his phone and stretched out on the floor, his face positioned directly under the— Oh! Now I understood, and my cheeks burned.

“Imagine you’re sitting on it,” he murmured.

I did. Last night, I’d dreamed of that chair, of lowering myself onto the padded leather, supporting myself on my hands as I leaned back and let him taste me. I’d been raised to believe that masturbation was a sin, a forbidden act, but I’d orgasmed so hard I’d jolted awake. And when I regained my senses, I’d found my hand between my thighs, my fingers dripping.

Now I could barely look at my boss.

He was studying the departure board with my backpack slung over his shoulder and our laptop bags in his hand. He didn’t have luggage—because he often had to visit other branches of Nyx, he maintained an apartment in each location. They ranged from the huge penthouse in LA that he considered his home to a studio in Denver. The property was an investment, he said, and he preferred having his own space to hotel rooms.

His phone rang.

My phone rang.

Shit, it was Meera.

Mr. Vale was already talking to whoever had called him, so I slipped away, heading in the direction of the bathrooms.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“He’s gone. Alfie’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

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