Page 41 of Sexting the Billionaire

This is it—the moment to retreat to safer ground, to laugh it off as harmless flirtation. The sensible choice is obvious.

"I'll be there," I hear myself say instead.

His eyes darken with satisfaction. "South entrance. Don't make me wait, Cassie."

As he walks away, I realize I've stopped breathing. What am I doing? What arewedoing?

And more importantly—am I really going to follow through?

My phone buzzes one more time in my hand.

I don't make promises, sweetheart. I make plans. And I've been planning this since that first text.

With those words burning on my screen, I know with absolute certainty that I'm about to make either the best or worst decision of my life.

And I can't wait to find out which.

10

ROMAN

I'm not a man who paces.

Pacing suggests uncertainty, and uncertainty is a luxury CEOs can't afford.

Yet here I am, taking measured steps beside my idling car, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes while Henri, my driver, pretends not to notice this uncharacteristic display of nerves.

Nine minutes since I left Cassie standing in the crowded museum.

Nine minutes since I issued what amounts to the most unprofessional invitation of my career.

I loosen my bow tie further, annoyed at how the simple black silk suddenly feels like it's strangling me.

The night air is cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that's been simmering inside me since I saw Cassie in that dress—that architectural marvel of midnight blue fabric that somehow makes her look both elegantly professional and impossibly seductive.

"Mr. Kade?" Henri's voice interrupts my thoughts. "Would you prefer to wait inside?”

Translation:You're making a spectacle of yourself, sir.

"No," I reply curtly, then soften my tone. "Thank you, Henri. Just enjoying the night air."

He gives me a look that says he's been working for me seven years and has never once seen me "enjoy night air," but he's too professional to comment further.

One minute left. My phone weighs heavy in my pocket, and I resist the urge to check if she's sent a message canceling. Part of me—the rational, CEO part—hopes she will. The other part...

The museum's side door opens, and there she is.

Cassie steps out, looking slightly breathless, as though she ran part of the way. Her eyes dart around until they land on me, and I watch as she visibly steadies herself before walking toward my car with deliberate steps. The moonlight catches on her dress, making her shimmer with each movement.

I shouldn't be doing this. She's my employee. A talented employee with a career that could be derailed by precisely this kind of complication.

And yet, as she approaches, all my carefully constructed arguments for professional distance crumble like sand castles against the tide.

"You came," I say, hating how relieved I sound.

"I'm as surprised as you are," she admits, a hint of that refreshing honesty that first caught my attention in her accidental text.

I open the car door for her, and she slides in, midnight fabric pooling around her like spilled ink. I follow, maintaining a careful distance on the leather seat—as much for my benefit as hers.

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