Page 64 of Sexting the Boss

Sasha Caldwell is always running late.

She’s told me as much in her texts, half-joking, half-frustrated with herself.

I swear my alarm is against me.

I’m practically an Olympic sprinter every morning just to make it on time.

And so, I wait.

And as I step into the crowded elevator, conversations die mid-sentence. Employees stiffen, eyes widening, shifting awkwardly to create space that doesn’t exist.

They weren’t expecting me.

I barely acknowledge them.

Because a second later—she appears.

Sasha rushes forward, breathless, just as the doors are about to close.

She stumbles in, adjusting the strap of her bag, her face slightly flushed from hurrying.

Then she notices me, and she freezes.

I can see the moment recognition hits.

Her lips part slightly, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. She quickly lowers her gaze, but not before I catch the way her breath hitches.

I smirk, settling against the back wall, watching her from under heavy lids.

She’s so oblivious.

Has no idea that the man she’s been texting, the one she’s shared her filthiest thoughts with, is standing right in front of her.

And if I have my way, by the time we step out of this elevator—she won’t be able to forget me.

The floors tick by, and employees gradually step off, one by one, until?—

It’s just us.

I straighten, the air suddenly thick, charged.

Sasha stares ahead, determined not to look at me.

Her hands fidget slightly, her body wound too tight.

She feels it.

I know she does.

The heavy awareness between us, like a live wire waiting to snap.

I let it stretch, let it simmer, watching her from where I stand.

Then—I move.

With one deliberate motion, I press the emergency button.

The elevator shudders, halting.

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