Page 136 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
The elevator dings on the fortieth floor, and the doors slide open.
“After you,” Ethan says, gesturing to the hallway. His voice is strictly professional, but as I walk past him, his arm brushes mine—a microscopic touch that sends a sharp thrill straight down my spine.
I walk out into the bustling lobby with my head held high, ignoring the way my body is screaming for him. This is the price of admission. This is the exact cost of loving the Phantom Trio.
I head straight down the server room hallway. I know Owen is following me, and I know exactly where the blind spot in the camera coverage is.
I pull open the door to the broom closet.
The closet smells of lemon polish and hot dust. Theoretically designed to store cleaning supplies, this small, narrow space tucked behind the server racks has served a much more vital function for the last thirty days: it’s our daily pressure valve.
“Quiet,” Owen murmurs against my mouth the second the door clicks shut.
His hands grip my waist, lifting me until my feet dangle an inch off the linoleum.
“I am quiet,” I hiss through clenched teeth, wrapping my legs around his suit-clad hips. “You’re the one who moans.”
“I don’t moan,” he corrects, biting my lower lip. “I growl. It’s masculine.”
“It’s loud,” I whisper-shout. “Sarah from HR is literally in the break room ten feet away.”
“Sarah wears noise-canceling headphones,” Owen dismisses, pressing me back against the metal shelving unit until a stack of paper towels wobbles dangerously. “I checked. We have a window.”
“You checked?”
“I walked right past the break room,” he grins. “She’s got her headphones clamped on and she’s blasting a true-crime podcast. She can’t hear us.”
I laugh, breathless and scandalized, as his hands slide up under my skirt. He finds the lace of my panties—the red ones he bought me last week—and groans into my neck.
“God, I missed you,” he says, his voice thick.
“Owen, we saw each other in the elevator two minutes ago.”
“That was public,” he says, the pad of his thumb drags over my center through the silk. “That was Coworker Owen, and I hate Coworker Owen. He has to talk about KPIs and not touch you, which is pure torture.”
I tip my head back, my vision blurring while he finds his rhythm. The risk is an absolute drug.
The sheer, unadulterated stupidity of doing this in a closet while the entire company buzzes outside is terrifying, yet completely addictive. This is our new normal. It’s been a month since the launch, a month since Harper left, and a month since we locked my apartment door and surrendered to this exhausting routine.
Layer one is the public face. I’m Tessa Hartley, Lead Brand Strategist. I sit in meetings, present data, argue with developers, and nod politely at the Phantom Trio when I pass them in the hall.
Layer two is the Unit. We live in the shadows, existing purely in the stolen moments between agenda items. It’s a glance across the conference table that lasts a second too long. It’s a shared Google Doc where Asher leaves notes that have nothing to do with code—Hydrate. You look tired. It’s Ethan calling me into his office for a performance review that actually involves him locking the door, lifting me onto his desk, and worshipping me for twenty minutes before sending me back out with mussed hair and a fifteen percent raise.
“Stop,” I gasp, grabbing Owen’s wrists the second I hear footsteps in the hallway. “Someone’s coming.”
We go completely still as the footsteps grow closer, pausing right outside the door.
Owen doesn’t move an inch, but his green eyes dilate, going dark with mischief and lust. He doesn’t look scared at all; he looks absolutely thrilled.
A moment later, the footsteps continue, and the break room door opens and closes.
“Clear,” Owen whispers.
“We have to go back,” I say, pushing against his chest. “We’ve got the Sterling meeting in twenty minutes, and Ethan will kill us if we’re late.”
“Ethan is currently punching something because he can’t be the one in this closet,” Owen smirks.
He kisses me one last time before finally setting me down. He smoothes my skirt, fixes his tie, and runs a hand through his hair, transforming instantly from lover to co-founder.
