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.
