8. Sasha
8
SASHA
I shouldn’t be smiling at my phone.
I shouldn’t be checking it between emails, sneaking glances at it in meetings, half-distracted when Ryan stops by my desk to ask about lunch.
I shouldn’t feel that little flutter every time it buzzes.
But I do.
I lean back in my chair, barely hearing the conversation happening around me. The office hums with mundane corporate misery—the clack of keyboards, the low murmur of voices, someone’s depressing sigh from two cubicles over.
And right in the middle of it, my phone lights up again.
Unknown Number: Are you slacking off?
My lips twitch.
Me: Excuse you, I’m being a very responsible employee.
Unknown Number: Are you?
Me: No. I’m staring at a spreadsheet and contemplating my life choices.
Unknown Number: Do I need to stage an intervention?
Me: Only if it involves you paying my rent so I can quit this job and pursue a career in leisure.
Unknown Number: And here I thought you were a hardworking woman.
I smirk, thumbs tapping out a reply.
Me: Oh, I am. I just think I’d be really good at being rich and doing nothing.
A second later?—
Unknown Number: Dangerous mindset. You might fall into bad habits.
Me: Like what?
Unknown Number: Like getting spoiled.
I don’t have a response for that, because Jesus Christ.
A slow heat curls in my stomach, and I have to physically fight the urge to fan myself with the nearest stack of papers.
This is not normal.
I shouldn’t be this invested.
I shouldn’t be sitting in a stale corporate office, heart skipping because a man I don’t even know is teasing me through a screen.
And yet, when my phone buzzes again, I bite back a smile before looking down.
Unknown Number: Still there, or did I make you blush?
I chew my lip.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
I don’t text back right away.
Instead, I stare at the message, fully aware of how ridiculous this is.
I shouldn’t feel this warmth spreading through my chest. I shouldn’t be reading and rereading his words, my stomach twisting just a little too much at the thought of him sitting somewhere—maybe in an office, maybe in his bed—waiting for my reply.
But I do.
And that’s the problem.
I exhale, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Me: Blush? Please. Takes more than that to fluster me.
I hit send, but my smug confidence is short-lived because?—
Unknown Number: Oh? Then tell me—what does fluster you, printsessa?
My breath catches.
It’s a stupid pet name, something he tossed out in passing.
But it does something to me.
It makes this feel more real, makes him feel like a person and not just words on a screen.
And that’s dangerous.
I don’t do things like this. I don’t get attached to people I’ve never even met.
I don’t wait for messages. I don’t crave a stranger’s attention.
But here I am, fidgeting in my seat, biting my lip, wanting to see what he’ll say next.
Me: Wouldn’t you like to know?
A pause, then?—
Unknown Number: I would, actually.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Jesus.
The room feels too warm all of a sudden.
I glance around, half expecting my coworkers to be watching me like I’ve got “I’m texting a man who is slowly ruining me” written across my forehead.
But no one notices.
Ryan is talking to someone about sales projections. Brittany is fixing her makeup in her phone camera, because of course she is. The intern is still terrified of answering the phone.
The office is the same.
I’m the one changing.
I look back down at my screen.
Unknown Number: Come on, printsessa. Tell me.
I chew my lip.
Then—because apparently, I have no sense of self-preservation—I type.
Me: I like a man who knows what he wants.
I don’t overthink it.
I just hit send.
And I swear to God, I can feel the tension through the phone when his reply comes.
Unknown Number: Lucky for you, I always get what I want.
I let out a very undignified noise and take a very deep breath.
I am so screwed.
“Sasha.”
I jerk upright, heart slamming against my ribs.
Ryan is standing by my desk, one brow raised, eyes flicking pointedly to the phone in my hand. “Who are you texting?”
I lock the screen immediately, slipping the phone under a pile of paperwork like I’m a middle schooler hiding a note from the teacher.
Ryan’s grin widens. “That was suspicious as hell.”
“It’s—” I clear my throat, forcing casualness. “No one. Just a friend.”
“A friend,” he echoes, clearly not buying it.
I grab the nearest document, pretending to be deeply invested in a spreadsheet. “Yep. A very boring, not-at-all interesting friend.”
Ryan leans on my desk, smug as hell. “Uh-huh. That’s why you looked like you were about to combust before I walked over?”
My face burns. “I was not?—”
“You were totally blushing.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Ryan, don’t you have, like…work to do?”
He shrugs, still smirking, but finally backs off. “For now,” he says. “But I will find out.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
* * *
As I leave for the day, I pull my keys out of my bag, smiling to myself.
My very own rental car.
Sure, it’s tiny. Sure, it smells like old leather and desperation, but it’s mine—at least for the next month.
A car means no more crowded subway rides, no more standing between a man who hasn’t discovered deodorant and a woman who argues on speakerphone at full volume.
I almost text my mystery man to brag about my latest achievement.
But I hesitate.
I don’t know who he is. And I don’t want him knowing too much about me, either.
So I put my phone away and keep walking toward my car.
The parking garage is quiet. The kind of quiet that settles too heavily.
And then?—
A loud, crackling pop.
Like a gunshot.
I freeze.
My breath catches, ears ringing with silence, my heart hammering so hard it drowns out everything else.
What was that?
Another pop, then a distant grinding sound, like something metal scraping against concrete.
Every instinct screams at me to move, to get in my car, to get the hell out of here?—
But then, I collide with something solid.
Or—someone.
Large hands grip my arms, steadying me as I nearly trip forward.
I let out a startled gasp, blinking up—straight into storm-gray eyes.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
It’s him.
The man from the elevator.
The CEO.
Damien Zaitsev.
Heat radiates through my thin sleeves, his face inches from mine—closer than it should be. His jaw is tight, his muscles coiled, like he was already on high alert before I crashed into him.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice low and controlled, but there’s something else underneath—something almost…dangerous.
I shake my head, speechless.
His eyes search mine, like he’s trying to assess something, like he’s deciding whether I should be here at all.
And then I realize?—
His hands are still on me.
Large, strong hands, holding me securely in place.
I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we are, of the way my pulse flutters under his grip.
“I—” I clear my throat, forcing myself to step back, but his fingers linger for half a second too long before he lets go.
His gaze flicks around the garage, then back to me. “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he says.
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a statement. A warning.
And for some reason, it sends a shiver down my spine.
I take a step back, pulse pounding, his words echoing in my head.
“You shouldn’t be here alone.”
Something about the way he says it unsettles me.
Not in a creepy man in a parking garage way—more like a man who knows something I don’t kind of way.
His expression is unreadable, but there’s tension in his body.
I blink up at him, trying to make sense of it. “Why?” I ask, my voice softer than I mean it to be.
He doesn’t answer, just watches me.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy between us.
I shift on my feet. “Did you—did you hear that sound? That popping noise?”
Nothing.
His jaw tics, his lips pressing into a firm line.
Like he’s debating something. Like he’s deciding how much to say.
And that’s when I know.
Something is wrong.
I’m not crazy.
I’m not imagining it.
He was already on edge before I ran into him. And that means…whatever’s wrong didn’t start with me.
My stomach tightens. “I—” I shake my head, trying to piece it together. “Should I—should we call security or?—?”
“No.” The response is immediate.
Firm.
Final.
I stare at him, and my pulse thuds harder.
He still hasn’t explained why he’s here.
Why I shouldn’t be.
Why the air around us feels thicker, why he keeps scanning the garage like he’s waiting for something—or someone.
I swallow.
Something inside me says to listen to him, to get in my car and leave.
But another part—the part that got me into this city in the first place, that makes me ask too many questions, that doesn’t just accept things without answers—keeps me standing still.
Keeps me looking at him.
Keeps me wondering who the hell my boss really is.
Then—
A voice cuts through the thick silence.
“Sir.”
I jump, twisting toward the sound just as a man in all black strides toward us. He’s big, broad-shouldered, and moves with the kind of controlled precision that makes my stomach tighten.
Security.
Not the building’s security, though. His.
And just like that, the moment is over.
He doesn’t say anything to me, doesn’t offer an explanation. Just nods once at the man in black before turning and walking toward a sleek black car parked near the exit.
I watch him go, my breath still uneven.
The way he moves—calm, unhurried, like nothing about this moment affects him—should piss me off.
But it doesn’t.
He’s handsome. Not in a very obvious way, but there’s something about him that makes it impossible to look away.
I don’t know why I keep staring.
I just know that I do.
And then he’s gone.
His car pulls out of the garage, disappearing into the night, and I finally remember to breathe.
What the hell just happened?
* * *
I should be sleeping.
Instead, I’m lying in bed, staring at my phone, thumb hovering over my keyboard.
Because, of course, he texted.
My mystery man.
Unknown Number: Are you in bed?
I bite my lip.
Me: Maybe.
Unknown Number: That’s a yes.
A slow warmth curls in my stomach, but it’s different this time.
Because when I close my eyes, it’s not just his words I’m picturing.
It’s him.
Not my mystery texter.
Not the faceless man on the other end of the line.
No.
It’s Damien.
I don’t mean to imagine him, but the second I let my mind drift, he’s there.
The way he looked in the dim parking garage lighting, his tall, commanding presence, the way his dark silver hair framed his face, the way his jaw looked sharp enough to cut through wood. Jesus, that man is a walking Adonis.
The way he held me still, like I was something that needed to be kept in place.
Unknown Number: Touch yourself for me.
I exhale slowly
This is so wrong.
I should be picturing the man I’m actually texting.
I shouldn’t be imagining my boss like this. But there he is—Damien Zaitsev—standing at the edge of my bed, unbuttoning his tailored shirt, his silver-streaked hair messy from where I’ve gripped it, his eyes dark and hungry as he watches me spread my legs wider.
Me: Yes.
Unknown Number: Good girl. Are your tits bare for me?
My breath catches, heat rolling through me as I slip my top off, my nipples tight and aching against the cool air. I imagine Damien’s rough hands cupping them, his thumbs brushing over my peaks, his mouth teasing, biting. I exhale sharply, one hand sliding over my breast, tugging at my nipple before going back to my phone, my other hand moving lower.
Me: They are now. I want your mouth on them.
Unknown Number: Fuck, I’d have you arching under me. Sucking them into my mouth, rolling my tongue over those pretty peaks until you’re whimpering.
I squeeze my thighs together, my pussy already dripping at the thought.
I picture him dragging his tongue down my stomach, his strong hands spreading me open, his breath hot against my soaking folds.
My fingers slip lower, slick and needy, teasing over my clit.
Me: I’m so wet for you.
Unknown Number: Good. You’d take my cock so well, wouldn’t you?
I whimper, my hand working faster, my back arching as my body begs for more.
Me: Yes. I want to feel you stretching me, fucking me deep. Make me yours.
Unknown Number: I’d bury myself in you so slow at first. Feel every inch of your tight, needy pussy taking me in. Then I’d fuck you the way you deserve—deep, rough, hard. Make you cry my name.
I let out a shaky moan, my fingers thrusting into myself, imagining his thick cock splitting me open, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress. I can almost hear his groan, almost feel the way he’d grip my hips and pull me onto him, forcing me to take every inch. I rub my clit faster, my legs trembling, the pleasure spiraling higher and higher.
Me: Please, fuck me harder. I need it.
Unknown Number: You’re mine, printsessa. Come for me. Let me feel you squeezing my cock.
That’s all it takes.
I shatter, my body jerking, pleasure crashing through me in hot, blinding waves.
My breath is ragged, my fingers still stroking, drawing out every last tremor of release.
I lie there, completely spent, my body a useless heap of pleasure.
And then, slowly, I glance at my phone.
One last text.
Unknown Number: Sweet dreams, gorgeous.
* * *
I’m trying to focus.
Really, I am.
But Ryan is hovering over my desk like a micromanaging vulture, and I’m two seconds away from snapping my laptop shut and filing for early retirement.
“Are you sure that’s the right formatting?” he asks, peering over my shoulder.
I grit my teeth, forcing a smile. “Yes, Ryan. Because I have eyes and basic competence. ”
He doesn’t take the hint. “Maybe double-check? Just in case.”
I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and remind myself that murder is illegal.
“Ryan.” I turn to him, forcing patience into my voice. “If you’re going to stand there and critique my every keystroke, at least bring me coffee. Otherwise, let me work. ”
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just trying to help.”
He’s not.
He’s trying to hover, because…well, honestly, I don’t know why. Maybe he just doesn’t trust me to handle things. Maybe he’s just one of those guys who thinks he knows better.
Either way, I let out a long, pointed sigh, turning back to my work, ignoring him until he finally, finally takes the hint and walks away.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull out my phone and text the only person who makes me feel better these days.
Me: Tell me, do men get some kind of secret pleasure out of micromanaging women?
Unknown Number: Who’s pissing you off this time, printsessa?
Me: Ryan. He won’t stop breathing down my neck while I work. I swear to God, if I wanted this kind of supervision, I’d have stayed in preschool.
I bite my lip the second I hit send.
Shit.
I just dropped a name.
For half a second, my stomach twists.
But then I exhale, rolling my eyes at myself. Ryan is one of the most common names in existence. My mystery texter has no way of tracking me down with just that.
I shake it off as my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: Want me to take care of him?
I snort.
Me: Tempting. But no, I think HR would frown upon casual assassinations in the workplace.
Unknown Number: Their loss.
I smirk, but then groan aloud when my email pings with yet another useless HR reminder .
Me: Speaking of HR, do you know what I just learned? I’m supposed to get “manager approval” before requesting more office supplies. MANAGER. APPROVAL. FOR A PEN. It’s a pen, not a government-classified weapon.
Unknown Number: Let me get this straight. Your company makes you ask permission to do your job?
Me: YES. And guess what? There’s a monthly supply limit. I’m sorry, but if my cheap office pen runs out of ink, am I supposed to just stare at my screen and manifest words with my mind?
Unknown Number: That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.
Me: Right?? Like, is this a company or a prison? Next thing you know, they’ll start rationing oxygen.
Unknown Number: Unacceptable. Someone should do something about that.
I snort, shaking my head.
Me: Yeah, well, unless you’re my CEO, there’s nothing you can do.
I shove my phone away, determined to finish my work and not let Ryan or corporate absurdity ruin my day.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that nothing ever actually changes in this company.