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WHEN SHE FANTASIZES ABOUT HER BILLIONAIRE BOSSHOLE... “Watch your mouth, April,” my boss says to me. There it is. The low warning that’s meant to put me in my place. It never really does. “‘Kay,” I mutter, my knee bouncing as I set the pen down, turning my chair back toward my desk properly and sitting forward again. His shoes clack against the marble floor as he steps closer, not away, and I swear the temperature drops. He stops just beside my desk, and I feel the shift in the air, the warning that he’s done putting up with my backtalk for now. “Rewrite it,” he says, folding the paper and placing it neatly beside my mouse like he’s bestowing judgment on me. That hand, my God. “And this time, make it believable.” And then he’s gone. He’s halfway over the threshold into his office when I look to see his hand wrapped around the door handle before he pulls it closed. I wait until it clicks into place to let myself breathe properly. “A-hole,” I mutter, grabbing the paper and dropping it into the metal trash can under my desk. I stare at the draft on my computer, trying not to think about the way his hand looked as his fingers lingered a second too long. Or the way he’d said my name, but it’s hard. It’s hard not to think about him at all. God help me. I blink hard, trying to focus, but my mind’s halfway gone. It’s been a long day with not enough sleep, and frustration does strange things to my head. I try to make the words on the page make sense, but I can’t stop picturing those hands, those goddamn hands. “Perhaps you need a demonstration of the authority you so carelessly omitted.” I’m gone. The daydream takes hold. My brain can’t even resist the imagined words. In my head, I’m bent over the polished mahogany of his desk, the cool wood a shock against my flushed, bare chest. My press release is flattened beneath me, the edges crumbling against my stomach. He’s close, leaning over me, and his scent washes over me. Clean linen and spice. It makes my head swim. He doesn’t ask in my mind. He just takes. “April.” Oh, crap. The voice isn’t in my head this time. It’s him. Real, live, standing-too-close-him. I startle so badly that my chair knocks into the desk, nearly knocking over my pen jar. “Jesus, do you—do you hover for sport?” I mutter, a furious heat creeping up my neck and cheeks. He raises a single eyebrow, not amused. “You were staring off into space,” he says. “You’re supposed to be rewriting the press realease.” I fight not to roll my eyes. “You’ll probably still hate it, regardless.” “True,” he says, turning away from me and stalking back to the door. “But maybe I’ll hate it less.” He retreats without another word, shutting the door again, and I’m left staring at my screen. My heart is thumping, skin prickling, and my brain absolutely refuses to behave. It shouldn’t bother me how much he hates my work sometimes. Usually, it doesn’t. But I’m exhausted and stressed, and it’s like he doesn’t care how his words land, even when I’m clearly not on form. He’s able to walk away unbothered while I’m left stewing in my bruised pride with questions I don’t dare ask in case he sees it as weak. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes I wish I could quit, wish I could walk out of this office and never look back. If I didn’t need my paycheck like oxygen, I would. At least then I wouldn’t have to work on the other side of a door from him, wouldn’t have to rewrite myself just to survive him. I hate him, and I hate that I don’t hate him. What’s worse, my body wants him. Wants the proximity and his broody, stupid stares and crude words, wants hands I can only imagine on my skin. Which is insane. He probably doesn’t even know how to want someone like me, not really. He’s not the kind of man who sees women like me as an option. I’m mouthy and curvy, with opinions that don’t come sugar-coated. I can feel it in the way he moves, hear it in the way he talks. He’s used to sleek, polished, yes women in sky-high Louboutins with mouths primed for compliance. Women who wouldn’t dream of rolling their eyes at him behind his back, or fantasize about him bending them over a mahogany desk. Okay, maybe that last one is fair, but he doesn’t want me. Not really. He just wants my work to be in top form. But, crap, I want him, and it’s fine. I’m used to fine. ❤️ Read Accidental Sext: A Forbidden Boss Romance. Free with Kindle Unlimited → https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G5LYV5JY Perfect for fans of: ✔️ Forbidden Office Spice and Intrigue ✔️ Age Gap / Silver Fox Romance ✔️ Curvy Girl / Body Worship ✔️ Mistaken Sext ✔️ Surrogate Pregnancy ★★★★★ "A deliciously addictive read that delivers exactly what a forbidden boss romance promises—tension, heat, and a whole lot of heart. Fast-paced, dramatic, and totally bingeable. If you love mature, high-heat romances with a strong heroine and a commanding hero who falls hard, this one's a must-read."- Reviewer.