Page 92 of Sexting the Boss

That he showed up at my apartment, completely uninvited, after sending me an obscenely expensive dress.

That I should be terrified of him, but instead I feel reckless and unhinged and hopelessly drawn to him.

I inhale deeply, shaking my head.

“I—” I rub my temple, my voice not nearly as convincing as I want it to be. “It’s not?—”

Melanie’s eyes narrow further.

I sigh, my shoulders slumping.

There’s no way out of this.

“He’s my boss,” I finally say.

Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?” she hisses.

I glance toward Damien, who is definitely listening, his smirk just barely hidden behind his neutral expression.

“You’re screwing your boss?!”

I choke on air.

Damien, the asshole, lets out a low, amused chuckle.

“I—NO,” I hiss, smacking her arm. “Jesus, lower your voice!”

Melanie, completely ignoring me, stares at Damien again, her expression a mix of awe and horror. “You’re her boss?” she asks him directly, like I’m no longer in the room.

Damien lifts a brow. “I sign her paychecks, yes.”

Melanie turns back to me, slowly. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

I groan, pressing the dress box to my face like it might suffocate me.

“Look, it’s complicated, okay?” I mumble through the fabric.

“And you’re actually thinking of going with him?” she whispers, staring at me like she doesn’t know who I am anymore.

She’s not wrong. I barely know who I am right now.

Before I can say something to salvage what’s left of my dignity, Damien speaks first.

“She has to,” he says smoothly, looking far too entertained by this whole thing. “It’s part of her company-mandated training.”

Melanie narrows her eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

I clench my jaw, because if I open my mouth, I’m going to say something I regret—like how I want to strangle Melanie for making this situation ten times worse. I know what I have to do to end this conversation before she calls Homeland Security on my boss.

I take a slow breath, grab the dress box, and march into my room.

I don’t give Damien the satisfaction of slamming the door, but I really want to.

* * *

I stareat myself in the mirror, arms crossed, lips pressed together.

I look…okay. Actually, more than okay. And it’s all the dress.

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