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When you loathe your silver fox boss, you don’t quit—you send him a sext.
Accidentally.
“I can’t stop thinking about him bending me over his desk.”
That was the text I sent to my boss.
Instead of my best friend.
His reply?
“Come in early tomorrow. 7:30.”
Mr. Voss.
Six-feet-whatever of cold, silver-haired disapproval in a charcoal suit.
A stare that strips me bare without ever touching me.
Hands that look far too capable of undoing me… completely.
I expect him to fire me.
But he calls me into his office, shuts the door, and makes me an offer.
More like an ultimatum.