Page 141 of Sexting the Boss

“And I told you that if you try to run my life like one of your meetings, I will make a scene so loud even your stoic kitchen staff will need therapy!”

He narrows his eyes. “Who are you going to see?”

I hesitate for one second. One tiny second. That’s all it takes.

“Ryan,” I say. “We had plans. I forgot. But now I’m going.”

Damien stares at me like I’ve personally stabbed him with a gold-plated dessert fork.

“I’m having that man fired first thing tomorrow.”

I lunge forward like he just said he’s replacing my Netflix password. “You’re doing no such thing!”

“He asked you out while working under me. That’s grounds for termination.”

“Oh my God, you are not Terminator HR! What is wrong with you?”

“You’re mine!” he explodes, hands clenched. “You think I’m just going to stand by while some guy takes you out for ravioli and tries to get in your pants?”

I stare at him, stunned silent.

That’s the second time he’s said it out loud.You’re mine.

The silence stretches. My heart is beating out of rhythm. My hand is still clenched around the strawberry bowl like it might save me.

Finally, I manage a whisper. “Is that what you think Ryan wants? To get in my pants?”

Damien’s eyes darken. “They all do.”

“You think you can stake a claim on me and keep the rest of the world out?”

He clenches his jaw, teeth practically grinding. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is. You feel it as much as I do.”

“Feel what, exactly?” I demand, even though my pulse is racing. “Because right now, all I feel is you being a controlling jerk.”

Damien’s nostrils flare, and before I can blink, his hand shoots out, gripping my upper arm—not hurting, but firm. Our faces are inches apart.

“Don’t you get it? You can’t?—”

He moves. Faster than I can think, his mouth crashes down on mine. It’s a collision of frustration and need, all the fury pouring out in a fiery kiss that has me gasping.

My back hits the wall with a dull thud, and he presses against me, trapping me with his body. I should push him away, should keep yelling, but the second his lips part mine, my resolve shatters.

I kiss him back just as fiercely, hands curling into the fabric of his shirt. Our teeth clash, tongues tangling in a desperate attempt to claim the upper hand.

He tears his lips from mine just long enough to rasp, “You drive me insane,” against my mouth.

“Good,” I snap breathlessly, sliding my fingers into his hair and yanking him back in.

His responding growl vibrates against my lips, sending heat racing through my veins. My heart feels like it’s going to explode.

He grabs the hem of my shirt, tugging upward impatiently, his knuckles grazing my rib cage. I gasp, arching into him. My own fingers find the buttons on his shirt, ripping one off in my haste to yank it open.

He exhales sharply, half a laugh, half a curse, and then devours my mouth again. His hips pin me to the wall, and I moan as I feel him, hard and unyielding against my stomach.

We’re a mess—hot breaths, frantic hands, clothes hitting the floor in haphazard confusion. His shirt slides from his shoulders; my top tangles around my arms. Neither of us cares.

I drag my nails down his chest, mapping the ridges of muscle, the heat of his skin, the pounding heartbeat beneath. He grips my waist, fingers digging in as if to remind meexactlywho’s driving me to this madness.

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