Page 14 of Sexting the Boss

This is someone controlled. Calculated.

The kind of person who doesn’t rush their words.

I should stop. Shut it down.

But I don’t.

Me: Maybe I like both.

My thumb barely leaves the screen before I get a reply.

Unknown Number: Good girl.

My breath catches.

Heat coils low in my stomach.

My fingers twitch, ready to type something back—something equally teasing, equally dangerous?—

But then my brain catches up.

What the hell am I doing?

I don’t know who this is.

This could be anyone. A creep. A lunatic. A coworker who will make things weird forever.

I drop my phone onto my lap like it’s radioactive, pressing my palms into my eyes.

Jesus.

I need to sleep.

Me: Sorry, wrong number.

Then I throw my phone onto the nightstand, flip onto my stomach, and bury my burning face into my pillow.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzes one last time.

I don’t look at it.

I won’t look at it.

I absolutely will not?—

I peek.

Unknown Number: Liar.

The word sits on my screen, a challenge, an accusation, and something far worse—an invitation.

I should end it.

I should block the number.

I should do literally anything except what I’m about to do.

But my fingers are already moving.

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