Page 51 of Sexting the Boss
I nod, eyes already heavy. My body is warm, loose, and tucked under the weight of his arm, but my mind won’t stop spinning, not even as exhaustion pulls at me. I want this again, not just tonight but tomorrow, and the next day, and maybe even after that, which is the part that scares me the most.
It’s not the bruises or the restraint or the fact that he could probably ruin me without breaking a sweat—it’s that I liked all of it, and I’m already craving more.
He’s not gentle in the way most people mean it, but he’s careful, and that might be worse, because it means he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I don’t think I’m strong enough to pretend I don’t feel what he’s doing to me. He’s possessive and dangerous in ways he doesn’t try to hide, and if I’m being honest part of me doesn’t want him to.
But the rest of me is already asking the only question that matters?—
If I go deeper, I’ll risk losing myself to him completely. So do I stay…or do I run?
11
LILA
I wake up slowly, tangled in sheets that feel expensive enough to charge rent, and for a few blessed seconds I forget where I am. Then I stretch, my muscles reminding me very clearly of last night, and the memory snaps into place with a jolt that makes me groan quietly into the pillow.
Ethan’s bed. Ethan’s penthouse. Ethan.
The spot beside me is empty, but it’s still warm, which feels like a taunt. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, letting myself breathe for a moment, because if I jump straight into thinking I’m going to spiral. Staying over felt reckless when we crossed that line last night, but at the time it also felt easier than hauling myself home half-asleep and buzzing from everything that happened.
I sit up and notice the tray on the nightstand.
Coffee. Breakfast. A note.
I reach for the coffee first, because I have learned through painful experience that reading emotionally loaded messageswithout caffeine is a terrible idea. It’s good coffee, the kind that makes you close your eyes for a second and reconsider your entire relationship with your sad little drip machine at home. I look around and see my little bag on the nightstand. He must’ve brought it in. I reach for it, draw out a little packet with a morning-after pill, and down it with the coffee. We were both impulsive last night, so I’d rather play safe this morning.
Then I pick up the note.
Lila,
Got called in early. Work, not an escape.
Eat. Lock up when you leave.
You’re mine. No one else gets to have you.
—E
I stare at it, coffee halfway to my mouth.
It’s hot. Annoyingly so. My body reacts before my brain can file an objection, and there’s a rush of heat low in my stomach that has nothing to do with the caffeine. Possessive language does something to me, apparently, which is information I would have liked to learn in a safer, less complicated context.
Then the other feeling arrives, and while I can’t call it fear, it’s a tightening, a small internal pause where my instincts clear their throat and ask if I’d like to maybe slow down and look around.
You’re mine. No one else gets to have you.
I tell myself it’s just talk. He’s intense, not careless. He asked for consent at every step last night. He checked in. He listened. That matters. I fold the note and set it aside, deliberately choosing notto overanalyze it while wearing his shirt and drinking his coffee in his penthouse.
I eat, because he’s left a yogurt bowl that’s excellent and because I need the grounding. I wander the space barefoot, soaking in the ridiculous luxury of it all, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the art that probably costs more than my car, the quiet that feels engineered. I let myself enjoy it, because pretending I don’t would be dishonest.
The shower is the kind that makes you want to stay until the hot water runs out, and I do. I wash my hair slowly, replaying pieces of the night without meaning to, and I catch myself smiling at nothing. That’s when I know I need to get dressed and go home before my brain gets any worse ideas.
The next few nights and weekends are nothing short of magical. Ethan makes time move far too quickly. One day rolls into the next, and I fall harder and faster. At work, he sends me sexts to remind me I’m his, as if I don’t feel his gaze follow me as we remain professional during the work hours.
I still haven’t told my friends, but they know something is up. Everything still feels so new, and I’m still sorting through my feelings of it all. I’ll tell them when I’m ready.
After another night at Ethan’s and he’s already left for the office, I pull on my clothes, practical and familiar, and I feel myself reassemble with each layer. Assistant. Adult. Person who pays rent. When I’m ready, I grab my bag, take one last look around, and head for the door.
