Page 11 of Sexting the Boss

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then, a smirk. “Must be someone else, then.”

I don’t take the bait.

She waits. When I don’t answer, she rolls her eyes and turns away, grabbing her clutch from the couch. “Fine,” she mutters. “Oleg can drive me.”

“Oleg will drive you,” I correct.

Oleg, who has been wordlessly observing this entire exchange, nods once. The conversation is over.

Nina knows it.

She doesn’t look back as she strides toward the elevator, her perfume lingering even after the doors slide shut behind her.

I exhale slowly, rolling my sleeves to my elbows, glancing at the phone still sitting untouched on the table.

The unknown message.

The unseen sender.

For some reason, I pick it up again, scrolling back to the words I still haven’t forgotten.

I can’t stop thinking about you. About your hands on me. What would you do if you had me all to yourself?

I smirk slightly.

Whoever sent this, they were expecting someone else.

Not me.

I lean against the window, staring down at the city stretching far below, the lights flickering like a breathing, living entity.

Then, finally, I type back.

Me: I could show you.

I hit send.

4

SASHA

Brittany deflateswhen I don’t get a reply.

It’s subtle—just a flicker of disappointment across her face, gone in a second—but I catch it.

Like she was expecting something.

Or hoping for something.

The group groans, half-disappointed, half-amused.

James shrugs. “Guess they weren’t interested.”

“Or they’re asleep,” Tara chimes in, stretching her legs out on the carpet. “Maybe they’re like, a dad of three who goes to bed at nine.”

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