Page 39 of Sexting the Boss
I walk like a woman about to sit in an exam she didn’t study for. Once I’m inside, I lock the door behind me and brace both hands on the edge of the sink. My reflection’s wide-eyed and flushed, and I whisper a very quiet “holy shit” before I shake it off and take a breath.
The balls are smooth and heavy. My fingers are trembling, and inserting them is awkward, unfamiliar, and strangely intense. The second one makes me gasp a little, not from pain, but because my body has no idea what to make of this. I clench, then release, and it settles in place.
Oh my god.
I tug my panties back on and try to walk. It’s a wobble at first. Every step makes them shift slightly, and the weight does something to my brain that I can’t even explain. I fix my dress, run a hand through my hair, and hope I don’t look like I’ve just committed a felony.
When I return to the living room, he’s standing now, remote in hand, gaze sharp.
His eyes drop to my thighs, just for a second, then he looks right at me.
“Good girl.”
I don’t know how those two words can feel like a reward and a threat, but they do, and I’m already wondering how I’m supposed to survive the rest of the evening.
He takes my coat like a gentleman—if gentlemen kept sex toys in their inner pocket and looked at you like they already knew how the night would end.
The remote disappears into his jacket, and I follow him down to his car, trying not to clench with every step because I’ve already learned that clenching makes it worse. Or better. Depending on who’s asking.
We pull up outside a restaurant I’ve only ever seen online, the kind with actual valet and menus that don’t show prices. Theentrance is stone and glass and glowing sconces, and inside it’s all smooth candlelight and warm shadows, the kind of luxe that doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard. People look up when we walk in, and more than one of them definitely knows his name.
A server leads us to a corner table dressed in white linen and flanked by velvet chairs that feel more like thrones. I try to act like I belong here. Like my thighs aren’t trying to press together under this dress. Like I can sit normally.
Ethan doesn’t touch the remote yet. He just watches me with that sharp calm of his while the server lists off the specials in an accent I don’t dare imitate. He orders without looking at the menu. Of course he does.
When the wine arrives, it’s in a crystal decanter so beautiful I want to apologize for not being French. The server pours it with a practiced tilt, and I take the glass with careful fingers. The color is deep gold, and it smells like flowers and sugar and something way too expensive for me to pronounce.
I bring it to my lips and take one small sip.
He presses the button.
The wine hits my tongue just as the vibration pulses through me, sharp and deep and perfectly placed. My breath stutters. The sweetness blooms on my palate while my inner muscles contract around the weighted balls, sudden and needy. I choke back a sound and blink fast, gripping the stem of the glass like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Ethan raises his own glass and watches me over the rim. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes are darker now. Patient. Possessive. Satisfied.
My nails dig into the white linen as another wave hits. The table doesn’t move, but I swear the floor might. My breath shortens and I try to focus on the wine glass in front of me, but Ethan presses the button again, and everything shatters behind my eyes.
I bite down a sound that should never be made in public.
The server brings out our food.
Ethan looks completely unaffected, cutting into his steak like I’m not gripping the edge of the table trying not to collapse. “Doing alright, baby girl?”
“I’m fine,” I manage. My voice is three octaves too high. I clear my throat. “This lamb is delicious.”
“You’re delicious.”
“Ethan.”
He smirks and turns the dial down. “You can thank me later. Privately.”
I barely get a sip of water in when a voice breaks through the restrained flow of conversation in the restaurant.
“Oh my god. Ethan?”
A tall blonde appears at the side of our table, all legs and blown-out hair, eyes wide like she didn’t know we’d be here, even though she absolutely did.
He doesn’t stand. “Sabrina.”
