I’m going to tell him I never meant it—heat of the moment sort of thing—and I want stock options instead. All true.

Then I received two entertaining texts from John damning me to hell because my mother had shown up the night before and wouldn’t leave. She’d cleaned his apartment, tidied his underwear drawer, and started organizing his porn. “My fucking porn, Lily! Mom put her hands on my porn. Spoiled forever! P.S. Hope first day of new job went well.”

I really had to wonder why he even owned porn. Who did that these days?

Me: Sorry. But that’s what you get for making crap up about me. Do it again, and I’ll tell Mom you’ve started hiring hookers to fill your lonely nights.

She’d never leave him alone again if I said that.

My brother: evil cow

The ritualistic taunting gave me a few moments of blessed distraction from my nerves until I got a text from Mr. Cole on my new phone, which sent me into a frenzied tailspin.

His first message said he’d introduce me to the troops on Monday at his monthly staff meeting, but in the meantime, I should get to work familiarizing myself with the accounts I’d been given—some of them blew my mind. Saks, for example, would be my baby. Pinch me. Slap my bare ass. Call me giddy.

Me: Yes, sir. Hope trip is productive?

Mr. Cole: Boring as fuck. Looking forward to some quality time with your dirty mouth tomorrow.

Now that text pushed me over the edge—it sounded like he actually looked forward to screwing me. Impossible.

But the next message he sent traumatized the ever-living hell out of me…

Mr. Cole: And change of plans. Pack for weekend. Bring something nice for Saturday evening.

Oh, Christ. I covered my mouth, reading the message five times. He wants to make a weekend out of it. But why?

Then it hit me. Perhaps he saw sex with me as some sort of intense therapeutic device. Oh crap. That’s it. That was why he’d said yes so easily. He had mentioned his therapist advised him to “accept it” into his life and to “confront it.”

This was one hell of a way to confront his fears, but “it” wasn’t going to happen. And I knew he’d understand why—he was my boss and I hadn’t really meant this to be part of our deal. I had way more respect for myself than that. Then there was the fact that I didn’t want to be some vaccination for his ugly illness. I wanted my first time to be a good memory. Preferably with someone I didn’t hate.

Needing something to ward off the butterflies in my stomach and clear my head, I put on my running shoes. I was about to head out when another text came in.

Mr. Cole: And don’t forget your exercise clothes.

Okay. So this was good. He might be enticed with going for a run or hike instead of his “therapy” session.

Me: Got my running shoes all warmed up for you

Mr. Cole: It’s not your shoes I’m interested in.

I stared at the message for a moment and threw my phone down on the bed, treating it like a poisonous snake.

Oh God. He’s probably testing me. The man knows I’m going to back out.

Leaving my phone behind, I headed out for that run to avoid texting him back. No, it was best to let his last message go and confront him tomorrow.

Of course, that’s not what happened. About a half hour into my run, I turned around and headed home, intent on calling him and setting things straight tonight. But by the time I got there, I’d lost my nerve and hopped into the shower, where I decided a better course of action was to blow off some steam and rub one out.

Nope. Wasn’t happening.

I found my mind unsatisfied with anything in my mental library—Brad, Jason M., Thor, Mr. Thornton—none seemed to hit the spot.

After my shower, and against my better judgement, I finally broke down and texted him back.

Me: What are you interested in?

Wrapped in a white towel, my blonde hair obscenely over-conditioned so it would be silky and wavy tomorrow despite the humidity, I nibbled my thumbnail, waiting for a reply. When I heard the chime on my phone, I could hardly look.

Mr. Cole: Watching you run.

I spouted out a laugh. Sonofabitch. He was testing me. Or taunting me, knowing I’d get cold feet. He’d flat out said that he thought I was spineless. Think you can play with me? Because I could give as good as I could get.

Me: Yes. I forgot. Men like you aren’t equipped to keep up. However, watching is very admirable. Will bring binoculars so you can see everything from a distance

I let out a few self-congratulatory snickers.

Mr. Cole: Thank you. Binoculars would be helpful so I can observe you from the finish line while I wait.

I laughed. Okay, I’d successfully turned the sex talk into a pissing match. Time to turn it back.

Me: Wow. Being so fast must be a huge disappointment for all those women who run with you. (Sad face)

I chuckled. “Take that, Mr. Pompous Egomaniac.”

Mr. Cole: Let’s not fool ourselves. We both know I’ll be running alone tomorrow.

So he basically had just called me a coward and implied he’d be jerking off tomorrow because I’d be a no-show? Of course, my thoughts had to come accompanied with a mental image of him lying on his back naked, stroking his long, thick cock, his cum erupting all over his hands.

I shook my head, trying to ignore how turned on I suddenly felt. Something about a beautiful man taking care of himself really did it for me. Not that I’d ever seen it happen in real life, but I occasionally satisfied my curiosity and needs with a little Internet exploration.

I was about to type a response, indicating that I would not disappoint him, but I knew that wasn’t true. He was right. I didn’t have the backbone to go through with it, and it certainly wasn’t the right thing to do.

But then why was the idea beginning to grow on me? A girl like me would never have the chance to be with a man like that ever again.

After another long day of reading through client files, sales projections, and product offerings, my brain felt like a tater tot, but I’d welcomed the distraction from the crazy thoughts spinning in my head. I’d also welcomed the fact that Mr. Cole’s staff wasn’t in the office this week because they were all traveling, either visiting clients or at a big trade show in New York. Sounded pretty dang exciting to me, but I knew there’d be plenty of time for that stuff later. Right now, I needed to get up to speed quickly because come Monday morning, I’d be meeting the team, likely assigned a few projects, and have to start getting out on the road to meet customers. Oh, and I’d be recovering from sex. Okay, maybe not.

Yes, this morning I’d packed and went to work with the full intention of going through with the weekend. Crazy. I know. But after a night of the most erotic sexy dreams of Mr. Cole fucking me, licking me, and touching every part of my body until all signs of my virginity were obliterated, I’d woken up in a state that failed words. Horny, aroused, turned on—none of those cut it.

By lunch, my sanity had overcome my body’s needs, and I’d made up my mind not to be a coward, per my own definition. I would tell Mr. Cole the truth: I hadn’t been serious when I’d put fucking on the table.

I’d just have to use that backbone of mine to come clean. He would have to respect that, right?

There was a knock on my office door as I started packing up my things.