Page 45 of Sexting the Boss
Her eyes are bright and hungry, and there’s a flicker of nerves there too, which tells me she understands exactly how deep this could go.
Perfect.
I take her hand and lead her deeper into the penthouse, already planning what comes next.
10
LILA
The room he leads me to is at the far end of the penthouse, past the bedroom I already know. This door is different—solid, darker, like it was built to keep things in, not out. He opens it with a touch, and I step inside before I have the sense to hesitate.
It’s not a dungeon, not exactly, because in my head it’s definitely way too neatly arranged and intentional to be a cave where boys play video games and ignore their partners. But there are things here that make my breath catch anyway—leather restraints hung neatly on the wall, a padded bench that doesn’t look like it belongs in a gym, a cabinet I can’t stop staring at.
He watches me take it in without speaking. Then he shuts the door and the quiet turns absolute.
“Come here.”
I do.
He tilts my chin up with one finger and studies me like he’s searching for cracks. When he finds none, his mouth softens just enough for me to feel it.
“I need your words,” he says. “You still with me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Color?”
“Green.”
His hand slides into my hair. “Good girl.”
Those two words hit me harder than I expect, and my thighs press together because I know he notices.
“I told you I wasn’t finished,” he says, then he’s behind me, fingers unzipping the back of my dress, dragging it down slow enough to make my skin ache.
When the fabric pools at my feet, he brushes my hair aside and presses his mouth between my shoulder blades, a kiss that’s too soft for how exposed I suddenly feel.
“You’re going to kneel for me.”
I nod.
“Use your voice.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He steps away and I hear him move—opening a drawer, adjusting something, the quiet sounds of decision-making I’m not part of yet. I drop to my knees when he gestures, and the floor is padded enough that I don’t flinch.
He circles behind me and lifts my wrists, fastening leather cuffs that buckle at the back and draw my arms behind me. It’s not painful, but it’s limiting in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“Too tight?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good. Breathe.”
I do, in and out, and when he brings the blindfold down, I let him. The darkness makes everything sharper—his breath, his steps, the sound of his belt sliding free.
He doesn’t touch me yet. Instead, he speaks low and certain behind me.
