Page 12 of Sexting the Billionaire

The emerald green fabric—silk, from the way it catches the light—is positioned to create the perfect window, not showing too much but suggesting everything.

The delicate gold chain of a necklace draws the eye downward, creating a path that leads to the shadow between her breasts.

My mouth goes dry, and I run a hand through my carefully styled hair. The strong jaw photographers beg for, the dark eyes the last woman I casually dated swore could ruin a woman with one glance—Forbes called me "devastatingly handsome with the Midas touch," but right now, in my half-buttoned Tom Ford and a pulse I can't control, I feel less like a billionaire and more like a teenager who just saw his first perfect pair of tits.

I noticethe attention to detail in the photo—the way her bra creates just enough lift to make the curve irresistible without being obvious. The shadow of her collarbone. The faintest glimpse of what might be a tattoo peeking out from beneath the neckline.

When's the last time a single photo affected me this fast?

Then I read the message with the image, and my morning gets significantly more interesting.

‘You know what, Camden? While you're out finding someone who 'pushes your boundaries,' I'll be busy getting bent over kitchen counters and coming so hard I forget my own name. You want to know what 'predictable' looks like? It's the way you're going to wish you were the one pinning me against bedroom walls and hearing me beg for more…’

I continue reading, my eyes scanning over increasingly explicit descriptions. The message ends with a promise that they've already deleted "Camden's" number.

Well, not quite deleted, apparently. Unless I've recently changed my name to Camden, which I most certainly have not.

I can't stop looking at the photo. It's not just the obvious—though the curve of her breasts in that dress is admittedly spectacular.

It's the confidence in the framing, the deliberate choice to show just enough while holding back everything else.

This is a woman who knows her power.

And she accidentally sent it to me.

I set my phone aside, but the image is burned into my retinas. I try to focus on the spreadsheet that requires my attention before the 9 AM board meeting, but my mind keeps circling back to that photo paired with those explicit words.

Who is this woman? And why the hell am I so invested in a misdirected text?

My phone buzzes again—this time with a message from Zara, my executive assistant:

Board members arriving. Meeting in 5.

I smooth my suit jacket, close the spreadsheet, and gather the materials for the meeting. But as I stand to leave my office, I find myself picking up my phone again, staring at that photo one more time.

Throughout the meeting,I'm only half present. Marcus from Operations is droning on about supply chain inefficiencies whenI lean back in my chair, fingers steepled, noting the way everyone shifts slightly when I move.

I know the effect I have in a room—six foot-two of lean muscle in a perfectly tailored suit, the kind of presence that makes people straighten their spines before I even speak. It's a power I've cultivated even before my first day as CEO, though the height and my jawline were gifts through genetics.

"Marcus," I interrupt, my voice carrying that particular edge that makes junior executives shake in their shoes. "Has it occurred to you that the Milan warehouse shortage isn't a supply chain issue but a management problem?"

The room goes quiet. Marcus's face reddens. "Well, Mr. Kade, I was getting to?—"

"You've been getting to it for fifteen minutes." I turn my attention to the CFO. "Elena, what's our exposure if we terminate our contract with Giorgio's operation?"

"Minimal, sir. We have three backup vendors already vetted."

I nod, making the decision that everyone else in this room has been dancing around for weeks. "Then we cut ties. Effective immediately." I fix Marcus with a look that's made fortune 500 executives sweat. "Next time, lead with solutions, not problems."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

They all nod, murmur agreements, and take notes like good little soldiers. It's the same dance we do every week—me cutting through their hesitation and bureaucracy with decisive action, them pretending they were just about to suggest the same thing.

But part of my mind keeps circling back to that text. To that photo. When was the last time anyone caught me this off guard?

People tell me what I want to hear. What they think will benefit them. Even my so-called friends measure their words carefully, aware of what my friendship might mean for their business interests or social standing.

But this woman—whoever she is—sent me her raw truth. Her anger. Her desire. Her body.

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