Page 16 of Sexting the Boss
Because next time, you’ll come on my fingers. And I want you thinking about that until you squirm in your chair tomorrow.
I’m still panting, still recovering. And he sends one last message.
Ethan: Good night, baby girl.
I set the phone down on the table, my body aching with unfulfilled need even after everything. My heart pounds as I wonder how I’ll face him tomorrow, how I’ll walk into his office and pretend this didn’t happen.
3
LILA
The next morning, I fight through a migraine and throw on clothes like I’m late for my own execution, because most of me knows I’m in trouble, but a small, traitorous part is thrilled that my long-standing fantasy about my silver-fox boss might finally be reciprocated.
On the train, a man stares at my legs. I stare right back until he looks away, then I answer an email on my phone because I’m already behind. Cross Enterprises is three stops from my apartment, and I use the ride to rehearse calm, because calm is armor and I need it today.
I don’t turn my phone on until I’m standing outside the building, and the second it powers up, my stomach drops again.
There’s a notification.
One message.
From Ethan Cross.
I lock the screen, and I walk inside like I’m not one wrong tap away from either a heart attack or the worst day of my life.
The lobby is bright and cold, the floors shine, and the security guard nods at me. I nod back and keep moving. The elevator ride up is silent, and I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, which is not helping the migraine, but I keep my face neutral.
The doors open on my floor, and the office is already busy. People glance up as I walk by, some of them smile and some stare. I keep moving. Being curvy in corporate is a full-time job on top of the job you’re paid for, and it’s exhausting even on a good day.
On a bad day, it’s war.
I pass the glass-walled conference room, and someone inside is talking about “presentation optics,” and I want to laugh because the optics in here always come down to one thing.
Who gets to take up space without being punished for it.
I make it to my desk, and I’m logged in before my coffee even finishes dripping, because Ethan’s calendar isn’t going to handle itself and his patience has never been a renewable resource.
My inbox is already stacked, and my first task is a reschedule, because the man refuses to acknowledge time as a limitation and insists on stacking meetings like he’s trying to win some private competition.
I’m adjusting a call with legal when I hear heels approaching. I don’t have to look up to know who it is.
Sloane Mercer is in business development, and she’s pretty in that a looks expensive and rehearsed way, and she’s been at Cross longer than me, which she brings up anytime she can. She also loves the kind of subtle cruelty that’s hard to report without sounding dramatic.
I look up anyway, because I don’t do fear.
“Morning, Lila,” she says, and her smile is bright enough to blind. “Cute skirt.”
“It’s a skirt.” I keep typing because I’m not giving her the satisfaction of watching me react.
Her eyes flick down, then up. “Brave choice for a Tuesday.”
I stop typing and meet her gaze.
“What’s brave about clothing?” I ask, and my voice stays mild, because mild is what you use when you’re about to cut someone down.
Her smile tightens. “You know. It’s just…noticeable.”
I nod slowly. “Yes, I’m aware my body exists, and I’m also aware that we’re at work, so if you need something professional from me, ask for it, and if you’re here to comment on my shape, you can do that somewhere else.”
