Page 89 of Sexting the Boss

Absolutely not.

Me: I think I’d rather call it an HR violation.

Unknown Number: Good thing I own HR then.

My jaw drops.

I stare at my phone, my pulse racing.

Because he’s not just messing with me.

He’s serious.

He’s really taking me.

This is…

This is not happening.

I should say no. I should text him back right now and shut this down before it spirals into something I can’t control.

Because let’s be real—this is insane.

This isn’t some guy I matched with on a dating app.

This isn’t some harmless flirtation at the office water cooler.

This is Damien fucking Zaitsev.

My boss.

The man who just had his hands all over me in a locked bathroom, making me moan like I belonged to him.

I let out a slow breath, pressing my fingertips against my temples.

I need to think.

I need to be rational.

But rational is hard when I’m still buzzing from his touch, from the way he looked at me in that meeting, from the way he made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

I like him.

I should be disgusted with myself.

I should be running in the opposite direction.

But here I am, still staring at my phone, still running my fingers over the fabric of the dress he sent me, still considering going.

What is wrong with me?

I press the heel of my palm against my chest, like I can somehow calm the rapid thudding of my heart.

It’s attraction. That’s all this is.

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