Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 73663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
And those eyes are staring at me right now.
Staring at the lights reflecting off my naked skin, bouncing off my hard, exposed nipples.
He licks his lips. Freaking Renzo Rossi, my gorgeous asshole boss, stares at my tits and licks his lips like he wants to walk over here and plant his mouth right on my buds and bite down.
Holy shit.
Excitement pulses into my core.
Tempered by a whole lot of shame, embarrassment, and horror.
I freeze like a prey animal caught by a lion. I can’t move, can’t breathe. My camera’s still held out, my tits are still pushed together. I want to scream and cry and run—
But Renzo only checks me out for another moment before he looks away, turns to one of Lisa’s filing cabinets, and finds a folder.
I manage to cover myself with an undignified whimper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s not what you think.”
He doesn’t answer. Because what can the guy say? It’s obviously what it looks like. He only walks back to the door, the file tucked under one arm, and looks back, head tilted to the side.
The man’s the definition of sex, and the look he gives me is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Intense, steamy, laced-through with an animalistic desire.
It’s so hot I feel my pussy clench tight. I’m wet, my god, I can feel myself dripping as my stomach tingles with confused excitement and—anticipation? But that can’t be right. I don’t like Renzo, not even a little bit. The man acts like I don’t exist. He may be handsome as hell and rich on top of it all, but the guy’s a slick, spoiled asshole.
I want nothing to do with him.
So why is my body tensing like he’s about to slam me against the wall and fuck me senseless?
And why does that thought send an alarming amount of lust ringing down my spine?
“Whoever you’re sending that to is a very lucky man,” Renzo says.
Then he leaves.
I stare at the closed door. Once he’s gone, I can start to think again. Holy shit, my boss just saw my bare tits, he caught me taking dirty selfies at work, which means I am so beyond fucked.
But he also sort of complimented me, which is beyond strange.
My body’s trembling with pure shame and self-loathing and—something else.
Desire. Unrelenting and impossible to ignore. An aching need for Renzo to come back here and press his mouth to mine, to pinch my nipples, to slide one of his big hands between my legs.
I’ve never, ever felt like this for Mark before in my life. Not even during our honeymoon phase when everything was fun.
No, this is something completely different.
I yank on my clothes, muttering to myself. “Get it together, Maddie. Your boss just saw your boobs and seemed to freaking like them. It’ll be okay, it’ll be fine, Mr. Rossi is just some random guy you see around the office, some stupidly hot asshole you barely interact with, you never talk to him, it’s totally fine.”
But it’s not fine.
I can tell myself sweet lies all day long, but the fact remains that my sinfully gorgeous boss just saw my tits—and apparently, he enjoyed them.
My phone buzzes. I yelp, wound up and completely on edge. It’s a text from Mark—I almost forgot about Mark, my boyfriend, the reason I’m doing all this.
In the thread, the photo I sent him showing off my boobs and my best imitation of a sexy expression sits overtop one simple response:
We need to talk.
I stare at those words.
They barely make sense.
For a second, Renzo Rossi’s forgotten.
We need to talk.
Things have been strained between me and Mark for a little while now. I’ve been with him for a couple years—we met at the tail end of college, and we’ve been together ever since—and for a while, I thought he was the one.
I still think he’s the one. I wouldn’t be putting myself through this nightmare if I didn’t want to make things work with him—right?
Sure, Mark’s not setting off any fireworks, but he’s reliable and dependable. He’s a CPA with a good job at a decent firm. He plays videogames too late at night and he never initiates sex, but he doesn’t drink too much, doesn’t gamble, treats me pretty good, and sometimes we even have fun together. He’s a solid partner. Not perfect, not terrible.
But the spark’s gone. If there ever was a spark. And the aftershock of Renzo Rossi’s lust-filled stare only underscores how much I don’t feel for my own boyfriend.
I’ve definitely never felt this leg-crossing pang of pure sinful lust grinding in my pussy for Mark, while Renzo made me nearly fall apart with one stare and a single comment.
We need to talk.
I can’t think of anything worse to get after sending a risky, vulnerable sext than We need to talk.
And yet it’s staring right at me.