Page 18 of Sexting the Boss
His gaze doesn’t move. “Do you always do that after midnight texts?”
My throat tightens, and I refuse to drop my eyes.
“I didn’t send it at midnight,” I say, because I’m petty, and also because I’m not letting him set the narrative. “I sent it at eleven something, and it was an accident.”
His mouth curls upward. “Was the rest an accident as well?”
My pulse pounds low, and my fingers curl slightly at my sides. “We’re at work.” My voice stays firm, even though my skin feels hot. “You called me in for quarterly reports.”
His eyes flick to the binder then back to my face. “Fine.”
He finally opens the binder, and I exhale quietly, grateful for the pivot. “Walk me through the revenue dip in Q2.” His tone turns business, but his gaze stays too aware.
I step closer, point to the highlighted section, and start explaining. It’s safer to talk numbers than to talk about what happened last night.
“The dip is tied to the delayed rollout in the west region,” I say, and I keep my voice even. “If the rollout hits on schedule this quarter, the recovery is on track, but the risk is the vendor backlog, so I’d recommend pushing procurement to clear it by next week.”
He nods once, then he slides a page across the desk toward me. Our fingers brush when I reach for it. The contact is brief, but my body reacts like it’s not.
I try to ignore it, pick up the page, and keep talking. “As for the attrition rate, it looks worse than it is, because it’s concentrated in one team. If you isolate that unit, the overall trend is stable.”
He leans back just a little, pen in hand, that smug smile still playing at his mouth—like watching me try not to fumble is the most fun he’s had all day.
I push through anyway. Because if I stop, I’ll lose the thread, and if I lose the thread, I’ll start thinking about his text, and then I’ll start thinking about his voice, and then I’ll be doomed.
I turn a page, and he reaches at the same time. Our hands touch again. This time, his fingers linger long enough that an ache kicks in between my thighs. My pulse races as I pull my hand back.
He doesn’t pretend.
His eyes drop to my lips then lift again.
“Continue,” he says.
My voice stumbles. “The, um, the marketing spend?—”
I stop, because I never say “um” in his office, and the fact that I just did makes my stomach twist.
His mouth lifts higher, and his eyes begin to sparkle. He’s clearly amused. While that irritates me, it also does something else, something worse. I clear my throat. “The marketing spend is higher because of the campaign shift, but it’s still within budget, and the ROI projections are attached.”
He leans forward and tilts his head slightly, his smile growing wolfish. “You’re off your game today, Bennett.”
My chin lifts. “I’m not off, I’m tired.”
“Tired,” he repeats, and his gaze holds mine. “Or distracted.”
I don’t answer and tap the binder once. He slides it aside and rests his forearms on the desk. His voice lowers. “Did you sleep?”
I blink. “That’s not a work question?”
“It is if you’re stammering over numbers,” he answers, calm as ever.
I swallow. “I slept.”
His eyes narrow. “Liar.”
My heart kicks hard.
I should shut this down and walk out, or at the very least remind him he’s my boss and this is inappropriate.
