Page 144 of Sexting the Boss

“Sasha,” he rasps, voice strangled.

I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a moan as the wave crashes—my muscles clenching around him, the world bursting into bright shards of bliss. My cry mingles with his harsh groan. He buries himself deep one last time, heat pulsing between us as he falls over the edge with me, eyes squeezed shut.

Damien collapses onto his forearms, head bowed near my neck, and I cling to him, my own breath coming in shallow gulps.

He recovers first, lifting his head to look at me.

I force myself to stay silent, to not blurt out the confession pounding behind my teeth. Because sayingI love younow would crack me wide open, and I’m not sure I can handle the look in his eyes if he doesn’t say it back.

So I just wrap my arms around his neck, drawing him closer until our noses brush. He exhales shakily, pressing a tender kiss to my temple.

We lie there in the aftermath, tangled limbs and heaving chests, the faint glow from the bedside lamp casting shadows across his chiseled features. I wonder if he feels as undone as I do. If some part of him realizes what we’ve just stepped into, a territory neither of us can map.

23

SASHA

The ceilingabove the bed is ridiculously ornate. Like it belongs in a painting or a royal courtroom where people wear powdered wigs and sayhenceforth.

I lie flat on my back, tangled in the sheets, still sore in all the best places, and definitely not ready to face reality.

Damien’s beside me, one arm under his head, the other resting across his chest. He hasn’t moved much since we collapsed into each other, and I can’t tell if he’s asleep, deep in thought, or silently regretting all his life decisions.

Naturally, I poke him.

His gray eyes flick toward me without turning his head. “Yes?”

I rest my chin on his shoulder, staring up at him. “Are you going to tell me who the hell you really are now?”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. His jaw tenses like he’s grinding down the words before they escape.

“You already know,” he says finally.

“I don’t.” I raise my eyebrows. “I know you’re rich. I know you’re the CEO. I know you have a broody stare and an unhealthy relationship with black clothing. But that’s all surface-level stuff. I want to knowyou.”

He sighs, like I’ve asked him to relive a past life.

I don’t push, just wait. He always cracks faster when I don’t nag him.

“I wasn’t born Damien Zaitsev,” he says eventually, voice low. “My name was changed when I was a teenager. After my father died.”

I blink. “Okay. That’s…mysterious. What were you before?”

He gives me a wry look. “Irrelevant.”

I sit up slightly, the sheet slipping down to my waist. His eyes drop before dragging back up to meet mine. Still distracted. Good. I’m throwing him off.

“So, you’re basically the mafia,” I say.

“Close,” he says.

“I always thought they were made up, you know? Like unicorns.”

“You’re too innocent for your own good, printsessa.”

“Stop saying it like a bad thing,” I say. “And stop dodging my questions. I want to know everything.”

He exhales through his nose, like he knows he’s lost this round.

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