Texting The CEO: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Read online

  He doesn’t know me, so either this is a pickup line, a lie, or…or what? Or he only knows my first name, and yet we’re somehow bonded, somehow – what – fused together?

  There are no other girls, his text reads.

  Oh, just me? XX

  I hold my thumb over the send button for a long time, maybe as long as a minute, willing myself to throw those words out there. It’s what I want to say, or, really, a toned-down version of all the things I’d like to text him.

  I’d like to tell him about my fantasies, my dreams of a life together…and then he’d tell me that to make babies, he’s going to have to take me savagely, possessively, making it clear who’s in charge, making it clear who I belong to.

  I delete the message, laughing humorlessly. There’s no way I can send that. It makes no sense, coming from nowhere when he doesn’t even know who I am.

  I should go to sleep, I write. I’ve got work in the morning XX

  It’s strange, he responds. I have no idea who you are. This has come out of nowhere. But I enjoyed it, in a weird way xx

  Why? XX

  I send the message quickly. It’s not difficult to figure out why I’ve enjoyed this and why I’ve relished in the digital closeness. I can close my eyes and picture him with his smirking lips, startlingly blue eyes, and that intense look that screams powerful, protective.

  And what has he got?

  Some words out of the ether, with a name attached, which could be fake for all he knows.

  I’m not sure, he replies. Maybe it’s when you typed ‘LOL.’ I’m used to stuffy business texts xx

  I giggle. Didn’t it make me seem about five?

  How old are you?

  I bite my lip, wondering if I should tell him the truth. He’s so much older and more experienced than me.

  For me, the age difference doesn’t make me want him less. If anything, it makes me want him more. It makes the idea of him protecting me and nurturing me so much more appealing.

  But will it be the same for him?

  Heck, this isn’t a date. I need to get that drilled into my head. He’s not even thinking in that way.

  Twenty, I tell him.

  I resist the urge to add, but I’m very mature for my age. I’m not even sure that’s true, though grief can age a person, people say. So can trauma, I guess.

  Well, twenty-year-old Fiona, it’s been nice talking to you. Sleep well if you’re telling the truth and not working for one of my rivals. If not…well, you can use your imagination xx

  I laugh again. He doesn’t know how right he is. I can use my imagination for far more than possible punishments.

  Anyway, I’d struggle to view anything he did as a punishment.

  I’m not, I write back. You sleep well too, Felix XX

  I stare down at the phone, my body hammering in time with my beating heart. It’s difficult to persuade myself this just happened. I just had a one-on-one text session with Felix freaking Franklin.

  I’m so giddy I could burst.

  Sleeping is going to be difficult tonight that’s for sure.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Felix

  I sit at my desk, staring at my computer, none of the words in the email registering with me. They might as well be written in a different language.

  Despite how quick the conversation was, despite knowing nothing about her except her name and her age, I can’t stop thinking about Fiona.

  I try to reason with myself.

  We only spoke for maybe ten minutes. Nothing overtly sexual or romantic was said. If there was chemistry, a lot of it could’ve been imagined on my part since I only had a few sentences to go by. But she was fishing with that ‘I bet you say that to all the girls’ line.

  A gold digger would fish and would want to make sure I’m not seeing anybody else.

  But if she knows anything about me, surely she can tell I’m not going to be susceptible to that. I never have. I never will. Only a woman who would ignite a firestorm of desire in me could do that.

  And there’s the problem.

  Fiona hasn’t ignited a whole tidal wave. She hasn’t triggered an avalanche of want.

  But there’s something more than was there before, like a flame ready to be coaxed into hellfire. It’s like she’s cast a spell on me over text.

  With a groan, I sit back in my chair, closing my eyes and trying to picture her. I’ve never had a ‘type’ when it comes to women. All I’ve known – or maybe hoped – is that I’ll feel everything I need to when I finally lay eyes on my woman.

  Yet, there’s something. My cock stirs as I imagine her wide-hipped, with big round juicy breasts, full lips, flushed cheeks, and wide eyes. She’s the perfect combination of a childbearing body and fuck-me-now sexuality, making my balls ache, seed flooding into my rock-hard length.

  I snap my eyes open, breathing heavily.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  She might look nothing like that. She might not even be a twenty-year-old woman called Fiona.

  I’ve got a break between two conference calls. I was going to spend the time checking my email and keeping on top of everything. My secretary knows only to forward me the most important matters and to fast-track anything from our charitable interests. I can normally kill thirty minutes by efficiently responding to as many emails as possible.

  But now I can’t stop thinking about this woman, this Fiona if that’s her real name. I remember the way the positive emotions warmed my core when I read her messages, more than I’ve felt with any woman.

  It makes me feel pathetic as I sit here, really thinking about it. All that blood, violence, and hell…made it, so I’ve never shared one genuine, intense moment except via text.

  But no, that’s not it. That’s giving me an escape.

  The scarier part is that it’s her, some untouchable aspect of her, something calling to me I can’t explain. If that’s the case – as insane as that is – it means I have to be careful. I can’t project all my needs onto this stranger, not without knowing who she is, if she’s telling the truth or if she’s going to try and pull some gold-digger crap.

  I pick up my phone despite these thoughts, returning to our text conversation. It was the same this morning. I almost sent her a message, but those fears held me back, her true identity looming like a threat.

  If I wanted to ingratiate myself into somebody’s business or steal their money, I’d behave as innocently as possible.

  I wouldn’t text them too much. I’d make them think it’s no big deal.

  But then, why was she texting last night?

  I type out a message, staring at it for a couple of seconds. This woman’s got me feeling like a teenager, analyzing my messages, something I’ve never done before. Even when I cared enough to try and date, I wouldn’t read and reread my texts to see how they sounded.

  What are you up to?

  It’s only possible to do so much analyzing with such a simple message. And yet I find myself doing it anyway, and then I start wondering if sending the message is a good idea at all.

  But by the time I’ve asked the question, I’ve hit send, impulse taking over. The base of my cock thrums hotly as though telling me I made the right choice. That’s just another crazy thought to add to the growing list.

  I watch my phone for far too long. She hasn’t seen the message. I wonder if she’s at work and, if she is, what she’s doing.

  She said she was twenty. She might be in college.

  My cock gives another twinge, the tip swelling with hardness. She’s young enough to give me everything I’ve ever dreamed of, a growing family, with enough time to pursue her own dreams and interests…with me there every step of the way, always supporting her, no matter what.

  Soon, it’s time for the call. I check my phone one last time before it begins.

  Nothing.

  During the call – a routine one, no big deal – my mind wanders continuously to Fiona. For the first time, my fingers are itching to reach for
my phone. I’ve never experienced this. Focus has always come naturally to me, as long as it’s hyper-intense, as long as I can fixate and ignore everything else.

  But right now, she’s what I want to fixate on. My stomach buzzes, and I wonder if these are the butterflies people mention.

  The call lasts forty-five minutes. I force myself to pay attention and take notes, as I always do, but that niggling desire to reach for my phone never goes away. The moment my computer screen goes blank and the video feed cuts off, I take my cell from my top drawer.

  At work, you?

  This is getting ridiculous now. As soon as I lay eyes on her words, my chest is gripped by that expansive feeling again, warm sensations flowing through me. Then my cock thunders, twitching, rock-hard as I imagine the woman from my fantasy, with her wide hips and her big eyes.

  I need to be careful. She probably looks nothing like that.

  Same, I tell her. And it’s boring as hell. I’m tempted to blow the day off and take you out somewhere, mystery girl

  I fire off the message without giving myself time to think about it too much.

  It’s forward, but it has to be. She hasn’t explained how she got my number. She hasn’t even hinted at it. She hasn’t explained why she started texting me.

  Meeting her face to face is the best way to solve all these problems.

  I’d love that

  I nod like a madman, like one of those bouncy-head dog things some people put on their dashboards. This stranger has got me more enthused and eager than I’ve ever felt, hungry in a way that doesn’t even make sense.

  But I can’t. I shouldn’t have texted you. I shouldn’t have this number. I’m sorry, Felix. It’s better if we don’t do this

  I grip the desk, my hands shaking, causing the desk to rock about. Pens and ornaments shift here and there as her words crash into me, and I struggle to accept them.

  It shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t be a big deal. If she doesn’t want to do this – whatever this is – I shouldn’t care.

  But I’m filled with primal fury, telling me to find her and make her see how much she means to me.

  Letting go of the desk, I sigh heavily.

  How much does she mean to me?

  We’ve spoken once via text, and I’m already thinking things like that.

  Suddenly I realize she might be right, though her reasoning must be different from mine.

  I need to back off.

  I can’t walk blindfolded into something like this. I can’t let my reason be wrestled away by this confusing need.

  It pains me as I write the text, but that’s proof I should write it. It shouldn’t hurt this much.

  I think that’s for the best too

  I almost stop myself. I almost throw my phone away.

  Then I make myself click send because this woman doesn’t exist. Sure, her name might be Fiona. She might even be twenty.

  But she’s not the woman who I’ve fantasized about for so long.

  I’m starting to realize something.

  Something I should’ve accepted a long time ago.

  That woman doesn’t exist, and she never has.

  I’m the one with the problem.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Fiona

  I sit on the toilet seat, tears making the screen blurry. I haven’t broken into outright sobs yet, but the tears come in silent streams flowing down my cheeks.

  I keep telling myself to stop crying.

  We ended something that never existed.

  Deep in my heart, I know I was hoping he’d fight for us. But that proves how skewed my thinking has become.

  I wanted him to fight for us, as though there is an us, as though that means anything at all.

  He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him, except through the internet and the occasional sighting in the office.

  Yet I can’t stop the pettiness.

  Fine then, if that’s how you feel!

  I send the text and then almost throw my phone at the wall. The only thing that stops me, right at the last second, is the thought of how much it would cost to replace. That might make it so I can’t pay my half of the rent. Saving for the sewing machine really set me back.

  Gripping my phone in a fist, I grab some toilet tissue and paw at my cheeks. I keep expecting my phone to vibrate, telling me there’s a text from Felix. I’d take an angry one, a borderline abusive one, anything, so I know he cares. He feels something.

  But there’s no response, not in the bathroom and not for the rest of the day.

  It’s difficult to focus on my work, but my boss keeps a stern eye on everything I do. For once, I’m relieved. It means I’m forced to think about other things, if only in short bursts, before my thoughts return to him.

  This is it, then. This is the evidence I need to let this silly crush go. I can’t keep living like this, dreaming up impossible scenarios with Felix Franklin.

  Hours pass, work filled with monotonous assignments. I check my phone every chance I get.

  Nothing.

  What did I expect?

  Did I think I’d tell him I didn’t want to speak, and he’d care?

  It feels so foolish now. I should’ve played it subtle, casual, and then…

  And then what?

  Then we meet one day, as he suggested, and he sees what I look like. He laughs at me. Or, worse, his face tightens in pity, his forehead furrowing as if I’m the most tragic person he’s ever laid eyes on.

  When he sent that message about taking me out – my skin tingled when I remembered, hey, mystery girl – he must’ve been thinking of somebody utterly unlike me.

  My total opposite. A blonde bombshell.

  With a sick grin, I think about sending Rachel in my place. She’s the sort of woman he’d be expecting.

  Lunch breaks and I drag myself to the sandwich shop, music blasting in my ears to distract me from the non-event of the text back and forth.

  Nothing has changed.

  Felix didn’t want me before. He doesn’t want me now.

  So why the heck are tears budding in my stupid annoying eyes again?

  Back at work, I try to focus on my work tasks, redirecting my attention from my phone to my computer screen again and again. It’s difficult not to let my mind stray to the text exchange, even as I remind myself that nothing has ended, not really.

  For something to have ended, something needed to begin. And nothing did. We were texting with some borderline flirtatious banter, and that’s it. It’s not as though we were developing some soul-searing romance.

  If he saw me.

  That’s the thought I return to far too many times. It bounces around my mind, loud, deafening, making it so I can’t think about anything else. If those wolfish eyes passed over me with their intense perceptiveness and glinting confidence… he’d turn away, shaking his head, disgusted by what he saw.

  Or his gaze would pass right over me like I’m a piece of furniture.

  He wouldn’t even care that I’m here. I’d be nothing to him.

  For what feels like the fifteenth time, I guide my gaze back to the computer screen. I keep having to remind myself of why I’m here…to work, not to pine over the CEO.

  Glancing at the clock, I see it’s almost three. I’ve got to submit a report by three-thirty. My mind simply hasn’t been cooperating, held captive by thoughts of Felix’s towering body, his bulging chest, sculptured forearms, and the way he stares like nobody else exists…

  No, that’s in my fantasies. He’s never looked at me that way.

  I’ll have to crunch to get the report done in time. If I type super-fast, I should be able to get down everything I need before my boss, Julia, sees me procrastinating and charges out here, grimacing as she waves her famous waggling, angry finger.

  But first… the temptation is too high. I reach for the top desk drawer, where my phone is. I want to reread the text where he offers to take me out and calls me mystery girl. Despite knowing how differently he’d feel
if he saw me in person, the words mystery girl make my chest tingle, as though my heart is sparkling.

  The moment I pull my drawer out, I realize my mistake.

  Julia bolts up from her desk and stalks out into the communal office area. A few of my colleagues look up, but most know to keep their attention fixed stubbornly on their computer screens when Julia goes on the rampage.

  I drop my hand and turn to my computer screen, but it’s too late.

  “What were you doing?” Julia snaps.

  She’s not a physically imposing woman. At just over five feet, she’s slenderly built and has neat black hair tied in a ponytail. But her eyes are wide and manic, and she seems to get a sick thrill out of talking down to those under her, at least when she can justify it.

  I sigh. There’s no point lying. At least, no point in completely lying.

  “I was going to check my phone,” I tell her.

  She folds her arms, tapping her foot on the floor, reminding me of a teacher getting ready to dish out punishment. I was never in trouble much in high school, but I remember the way some of the teachers would relish it, almost grinning at the kids as they made them wait.

  “At least you have the sense not to lie,” she says. “But you know – and I know you know – and you know I know… checking your phone is against the rules. We’re here to work, not melt our brains on our cells.”

  I nod. “I’m sorry.”

  “What were you checking that’s so important?”

  My cheeks glow. There’s no way I’m going to tell her about getting the CEO’s phone number from her office.

  I try to think of a suitable lie. There are so many I could choose from, so many reasonable responses I could give, and yet I find myself stumbling over my words. It’s the way she’s staring at me like she wants me to trip up.

  “Checking if my boyfriend responded.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  Her tone stings me. I would prefer it if she sounded outright hostile or like she was trying to be mean.