Page 122 of Sexting the Boss

“Sweetheart—” I grin. “If I wanted a power trip, you’d already be naked on my desk.”

Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “You areunhinged.”

The elevator dings again. I catch her arm before she can bolt.

“You blocked me,” I say quietly, the teasing gone for a second. “You really think I’d let that slide?”

I don’t let go of Sasha’s arm, not even when we exit the elevator and enter a deserted corridor on one of the older, mostly disused floors. It’s quiet here—perfectly empty. No one bothers with this section since we moved most operations upstairs. I half drag her around a corner, my chest tight with pent-up frustration, heart pounding with a raw mixture of anger and desire.

“Damien,” she warns, voice trembling between exasperation and something else.

I pause at a metal door markedStorage, jiggling the handle to test it.

Unlocked. Perfect.

Without asking, I shove it open, leading her inside. Fluorescent lights flicker, revealing shelves stacked with old supplies, dusty boxes. It’s cramped, the air stale, but private enough.

She yanks her arm free the second we’re inside, spinning to face me. “You’re insane!”

“I’m pissed,” I correct, stepping closer, the door swinging shut behind us. “And you’re just as angry as I am. Don’t deny it.”

She opens her mouth, maybe to deny it—but I see the fire in her eyes, that spark of defiance mixed with something hotter.

Her lips press together, her breathing uneven. “You sent me away,” she says.

I frown. “What?”

“You heard me,” she says, folding her arms in front of her chest.

“You really thought that was the end? That I’d just let you vanish?”

Her nostrils flare. “What was I supposed to think? You sent me home like I was disposable?—”

My hand curls at her waist, dragging her forward before she can finish. “Disposable?” I echo, anger lacing my words. “Are you out of your mind?”

She lifts her chin defiantly. “Maybe I am.”

I don’t answer with words.

I kiss her—hard, fierce enough that I feel her surprised gasp against my mouth. Every ounce of frustration, confusion, and need pours out of me.

She resists for half a second—fingernails biting my arm—before she caves, melting into me with a low moan that shoots fire straight through my veins.

We back up against the metal shelves, knocking some old boxes aside. Dust motes swirl, but neither of us cares. I grip her hip, my other hand sliding into her hair, angling her head for a deeper kiss.

Her arms twine around my neck, and she kisses me back just as fiercely, teeth scraping my lower lip. A surge of triumph—and relief—floods my chest. She wants this as badly as I do, even if she’s furious at me.

I yank at the hem of her blouse, half untucking it from her skirt. She shoves at my jacket, pushing it down my arms, our mouths never breaking contact. It’s frantic, messy, both of us breathing hard in the cramped space.

She breaks away for a second, eyes flashing. “I hate you so much right now,” she whispers, voice ragged.

“Sure you do.” My hand drags up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher. She whimpers, nails dragging across my shoulder blades.

Some part of me knows this is reckless—anyone could walk in. I couldn’t care less. I’m tired of distance, of secrets. I want her, here and now, consequences be damned.

I lift her, bracing her against the shelves. They creak ominously, but hold. She wraps her legs around my hips, her skirt rucking up around her waist, revealing lacy underwear. My heart hammers against my ribs at the sight.

We kiss again—angry, desperate, all fucking consuming.

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