Chapter 2
LILA
I stare at the message until my phone screen dims then lights up again when I breathe on it like an idiot.
If you’re going to beg, baby girl…do it properly.
My palms are sweaty and my heart is beating so hard I can hear it in my ears. I’m sitting on my couch in my tiny apartment, knees pressed together, wine glass sweating onto the coffee table, and my billionaire boss just called me baby girl.
This would be the right time to throw my phone across the room, or email HR and resign. Other options include faking my death and moving to another continent. But alcohol gives you a second mind, and that mind makes you brave. Stupid? Sure, but also brave. So I type a reply instead.
Me: Didn’t mean to send that, sir. I’m really sorry.
Three dots appear instantly.
Gone, then back again.
I stifle a groan and wonder what he’s replying and wish he’d just delete the photo and never talk to me again.
Ethan: Don’t apologize.
My stomach flips.
Ethan: Tell me what you want.
I stare at those words like they’re a trap and a gift at the same time.
What I want?
I want rent paid and my overdraft gone. And while we’re at it, I’d love to stop pretending I don’t notice the way he fills a doorway or how his voice drops when he’s focused—or worse, irritated.
I want him to see me.
But that doesn’t happen in real life, does it? The billionaire silver fox who’s probably dated the prettiest women in five time zones doesn’t look twice at the slightly chubby smart-mouth assistant unless it’s a Hallmark movie. And I’m not blonde enough for that.
The wine buzzes louder in my veins, loosening the tight knot in my chest. My pulse skids when I realize something else too.
He didn’t say this is inappropriate or that this needs to stop.
My thumbs hover over the screen.
Me: I want you to forget this happened.
The dots appear again.
Ethan: That’s not true.
I bite my lip so hard it hurts.
Me: You don’t know that.
Ethan: I know you stared at the screen for a full minute before you typed that.
My body answers before my brain can lie about it. How does he know that?
Me: You’re making assumptions.
Ethan: I make a living doing that.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the couch as my chest rises and falls.
This is a bad idea.
My phone buzzes again before I can talk myself out of it.
Ethan: You sent me a picture because you wanted to be seen.
I frown at the phone screen for half a second.
Me: I sent it by accident.
Ethan: You didn’t have to take it.
He’s right, I realize, as my frown deepens. I did want to be admired when I took the picture, because god knows I’m tired of not being fucked by a good man who knows what he’s doing.
I’m done with lazy hookups and men who think foreplay isn’t necessary, and the idea that I’m supposed to be grateful they show up to dates given that I’m a curvy girl so the dating pool is naturally low for me.
But then again, I wanted my friends to make me feel better about that.
This wasn’t about him…though I’m not complaining yet.
My fingers move before my brain catches up.
Me: I didn’t think you’d be the one seeing it.
Ethan: And now that I have?
I stare at the blinking cursor and take another sip. Fuck it, I think to myself. He’s playing, so I can play too.
Me: Now I can’t stop thinking about it.
The reply comes instantly.
Ethan: Good.
That single word somehow sounds like a command.
I shift on the couch, suddenly too aware of my skin, my curves, the way my clothes cling after a long day. I take another sip of wine, even though I know it’s only making this harder.
Me: This is a mistake.
Ethan: Mistakes don’t usually feel like this.
I close my eyes again.
He’s right again.
The wine is warm in my stomach. My phone feels heavy in my hand, like it’s pulling me into something I can’t undo.
Me: You’re my boss.
Ethan: I’m aware.
Me: You shouldn’t be talking to me like this.
Ethan: And yet you’re still typing.
My throat tightens.
Me: You started it.
Ethan: No.
I frown.
Ethan: You did, Lila.
Seeing my name like that makes my pulse jump.
Ethan: You walked into my office every day pretending you didn’t know what you were doing.
My cheeks burn.
Me: What I was doing?
Ethan: You didn’t have to do anything. It’s who you are, and the energy you attract.
I swallow hard.
Ethan: You distract me.
The phone’s shaking in my hands as I think of some smart replies and come up with none. They’ll probably come to me in the shower tomorrow.
Me: I don’t distract you.
The response takes longer this time.
Ethan: You do.
I exhale shakily.
Me: That’s not fair.
Ethan: Fair has nothing to do with it.
I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning.
He’s crossing a line, but I’m letting him.
Me: If someone saw these messages—
Ethan: They won’t.
That certainty sends a shiver through me.
Me: You don’t know that.
Ethan: I know exactly who has access to my phone.
The possessive edge in that statement makes something dark and reckless unfurl in my chest.
Me: What if I told you to stop?
The dots appear.
Pause.
Ethan: I’d stop.
My heart thumps harder.
Ethan: But you won’t.
I don’t reply. He’s right.
My silence stretches.
Ethan: Tell me what you were thinking when you took the picture.
My stomach flips.
Me: I was joking.
Ethan: You don’t joke like that.
I press my lips together.
Me: I’d had wine.
Ethan: And?
I hesitate.
Me: And I was tired of feeling ignored.
The reply comes slower this time.
Ethan: Ignored by who?
Me: By men who act like I don’t exist unless they want something from me.
A pause.
Ethan: I’ve never ignored you.
My stomach does a full gymnastics routine as I imagine him in front of me, saying those exact words in that honey-smoked voice that turns my IQ to soup.
Me: You barely look at me.
Ethan: I look at you plenty.
My cheeks go up in flames. God, what is wrong with me? One line and my whole body votes yes.
Me: Then why does it feel like you don’t see me?
The dots blink, vanish, return.
Ethan: Because if I let myself look the way I want to, I wouldn’t stop.
My breath catches hard.
Me: That’s not appropriate.
Ethan: Neither is pretending you don’t know what you do to a man when you walk into a room.
My thighs shift apart slightly before I can stop myself.
Me: You don’t get to talk about me like that.
Ethan: You like it.
I stare at the screen, pulse racing.
Me: You’re very confident.
Ethan: I don’t guess.
My phone buzzes again.
Ethan: Describe what you’re wearing.
My heart stutters.
Me: No.
Ethan: Then describe what you wish you weren’t.
I swallow.
Me: You’re pushing.
Ethan: I’m testing.
My fingers tremble.
Me: I’m in my work clothes.
Ethan: That wasn’t the question.
Heat creeps up my neck.
Me: I wish I wasn’t wearing my bra.
The response is immediate.
Ethan: Why?
Me: Because it feels restrictive.
Ethan: Everything about you is the opposite of restrictive.
My breath leaves me in a shaky rush.
Me: You shouldn’t say things like that.
Ethan: You shouldn’t send pictures like that.
A beat.
Ethan: Yet here we are.
I press my phone to my chest for a second, then pull it back.
Me: What happens tomorrow?
Ethan: Tomorrow you’ll walk into my office and pretend this didn’t happen.
My chest tightens.
Me: And you?
Ethan: I’ll remember every word.
A shiver runs through me.
Me: That’s unfair.
Ethan: Life usually is.
Another message follows.
Ethan: Now tell me what you’d say if you weren’t afraid?
I stare at the screen as my heart runs a million a minute.
Me: I’d say I think about you more than I should.
The dots appear instantly.
Ethan: How often?
My breath catches.
Me: Every time you say my name.
Ethan: Every time I look at you?
I hesitate, then type.
Me: Yes.
A pause.
Ethan: Good.
That word again.
Ethan: Because I think about you when I shouldn’t, too.
My body reacts like he’s physically touched me, like he’s holding my face in his hands.
Me: You’re lying.
Ethan: I don’t lie.
Me: Then what you’re saying is dangerous.
Ethan: So are you. So here’s the truth, baby girl—if you were in front of me looking like that, I wouldn’t wait.
I’d pin you down and bury myself so deep inside you, you wouldn’t remember your own name.
You’d take every inch while I held you there, grinding slow, fucking hard, growling in your ear how you’re mine.
The question is, is that what you’d want?
A shudder racks through me, his words slicing into my core like a blade of heat. I can hear that deep, gravelly voice, thick with possession, as if he’s right here pinning me to the bed. My fingers tremble over the screen.
And then, in that moment, the final sip of wine makes me type the unthinkable.
Me: Yes.
The screen lights up again.
Ethan: Take off your bra.
My breath catches. Not do you want to, it’s take it off.
And I do. I reach under my shirt and unhook it, slow and careful, like he can see me through the screen. The weight of my breasts shifts and the soft scrape of the fabric sliding off makes my skin feel hypersensitive.
Ethan: Now touch yourself. But don’t come. Not unless I say.
My thighs clench. I know I should say no or this is insane, but all I do is type:
Me: Yes, Sir.
The dots blink back instantly.
Ethan: Good girl.
Ethan: Now tell me. Are you wet?
My breath shudders out of me. I slide one hand lower, past the waistband of my leggings. I’m soaked. Humiliatingly, desperately soaked.
Me: Yes.
Ethan: I want you to drag your fingers through it. Slow. Stay at the top. Don’t go deeper yet.
I do as he says, pressing light circles, barely-there pressure. It’s agonizing. Every nerve ending is tuned to his words now.
Ethan: That’s it.
You want to be used, don’t you?
My lips part, but no sound comes out. I type it instead.
Me: Yes. But not by anyone.
Only you.
Ethan: You're learning fast.
There’s a pause, then another message.
Ethan: Slide one finger in. Just one. Feel how tight you are?
I gasp. My finger sinks in easily, but the ache for more is already unbearable.
Ethan: You’ve got no idea how good you’d feel wrapped around me, baby girl.
I’d stretch you slow, hold you down, make you feel every inch until you begged for more. Would you beg?
I moan aloud, eyes fluttering closed.
Me: I already am.
Ethan: Two fingers. Now.
My breath stutters as I obey. The stretch is real, but it’s nothing compared to how empty I feel. I want him like I’ve never wanted anything.
Ethan: Good girl.
Now press your palm flat over your clit while your fingers stay inside. Grind slow. I want you desperate.
I whimper. My hips roll into my hand as I do what he says. It’s too much and not enough at once.
Ethan: You don’t get to come until I say.
You’ll hold it. Or I’ll stop.
That threat unravels something deep inside me.
Me: Please. I’ll be good.
Ethan:I know you will.
Tell me how it feels.
Me: Full. Hot. I can’t think.
Ethan: Perfect.
That’s exactly how I want you. Blown open and dumb for me.
Now circle harder. Think about my hand replacing yours.
I do. And it’s so easy to imagine—his fingers rougher, surer. That voice in my ear, gravel and silk.
Ethan: You want to come?
Me: So bad. Please.
Ethan: You’ll ask properly.
I bite my lip. My free hand shakes as I type it.
Me: Please, sir. Can I come for you?
I hold my breath.
Ethan: Say who owns this pretty cunt.
The words slam into me like a hit of pure voltage.
Me: You do.
Only you.
The pause is long enough to wreck me.
Ethan: Come. Now.
I let go with a choked sound, hand still working as my body bows into the orgasm. My legs shake, thighs clamping around my wrist, and everything blurs into heat and relief and him. Him. Him.
My vision fuzzes out for a second.
The next message is waiting.
Ethan: That’s my girl.
And I feel it everywhere—shame, heat, want, ownership. Every nerve in my body sings with it.
Me: What now?
Ethan: Now you clean up, fix your hair, and sleep.
Me: Just like that?
Ethan: Just like that.
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.