Page 127 of Sexting the Boss

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“I will,” I promise.

I slip away, make it to the bathroom, and lock myself in a stall. I exhale hard, hand pressing to my stomach as if it’s the only steady thing in my world.

“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re doing this.”

My phone buzzes.

Ethan.

I stare at the screen like it might misbehave.

Then another buzz.

Then another.

I open the messages, and my pulse starts climbing in a way that has nothing to do with fainting.

Ethan: You look too good tonight.

Ethan: I’ve been watching you pretend you don’t know it.

I bite my lip, then I stop myself, since that’s a tell and I’m alone in a bathroom stall, which is not the place to start acting like a heroine in a romance novel.

I type back.

Me: I’m literally peeing. Please have manners.

A response comes fast.

Ethan: No.

Ethan: I’m picturing you in that dress, and I’m thinking about what’s under it.

My thighs press together, and I hate my body for being so easy.

I type with one hand, the other still on my stomach.

Me: The girls are right there.

Ethan: They’re your friends. They already know you’re trouble.

Ethan: I want you back at the table with that calm face, and I want you to know you’re going home with me.

My skin warms, and my breath shifts, and my brain tries to pretend this is inconvenient.

It isn’t.

Me: Are you trying to get me arrested for public indecency.

Ethan: I’m trying to get you wet in a bathroom stall.

I choke on a laugh, then I press my knuckles to my mouth, eyes wide.

Another message appears.

Ethan: Touch your thigh.

Ethan: Just once. Slow.

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