Page 30 of Sexting the Boss
“Only if you run from me.”
I glance at him. He’s not joking. He’s watching me like I’m a flight risk, like he’s already figured out I don’t do complicated things well and I’m two seconds from spiraling.
“I wasn’t planning on running,” I say.
He nods slowly, not convinced.
“You’re saying you’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m great,” I say, and even I don’t buy it.
I set my cup down a little too carefully and smooth my dress like it needs supervision. My hands keep finding things to do, and that’s usually the tell.
My last relationship didn’t end well. It started out sweet and attentive, the kind of attentive that feels flattering when you’re not used to being picked first. For the first few months, I got a fair dose of compliments, check-ins, the steady reassurance that he liked me exactly as I was. It took months before the tone shifted just enough to make me second-guess myself.
He liked to frame control as preference. He preferred that I dressed a certain way. Preferred that I stayed in. Preferred that I didn’t argue, because why would I need to? He made it sound logical. Reasonable. Like he was doing me a favor.
Then there was the part he never let me forget either. That I was curvy, men weren’t lining up, and he was a saint for wanting me anyway. Submission was a fair trade for being chosen.
I ignored the first shove. Then the second. Told myself it was stress. A bad night. An argument that went too far. It always does, until it always goes further.
It took more strength than I like admitting to leave. Strength I didn’t know I had and still don’t trust completely. The body remembers things the brain would rather edit. Raised voices. Doors closing. Hands tightening just a second too long.
So now, when someone is attentive, when someone is possessive but refined about it, my instincts sprint ahead and begin scanning for exits. I glance at Ethan, at the way he stands there without crowding me, without touching unless I move first. No part of me thinks he would ever cross that line.
But my pulse hasn’t gotten the memo yet. It’s still deciding whether to stay or run.
“Lila.”
I meet his eyes. They’re dark. Calm. Unreadable. The same way they looked last night right before he fucked me like I’ve never been fucked in my life. “I’m thinking,” I admit.
“About?”
“Boundaries. Regret. Logistics. Whether my hair looks insane.”
“Your hair looks hot,” he says. “And if you regret last night, say so now.”
I don’t. I absolutely do not.
But I also don’t know what the hell happens next, and that’s the part that’s turning my brain into a loading screen. “I don’t regret it,” I say.
His expression doesn’t change. “I don’t like limbo, Lila. You gave yourself to me last night. Fully. If that was just sex for you, say it.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Good.”
I shift in my seat, suddenly way too warm despite the breeze.
“You don’t do casual, do you?” I ask quietly.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
I sip my coffee to keep my hands from shaking. “I do.”
His jaw ticks, just once. “We’ll work on that.”
I want to laugh, but I get the feeling that wouldn’t fit this situation. I settle for looking at the skyline instead, at the people far below us. My stomach’s twisted with everything I’m feeling. He watches me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, like he always does.
