SLOANE’S POV
Look, I’m three glasses of champagne deep and so f*****g wet I’m probably leaving a slick mark on this leather seat.
I don’t even care. Let the whole first-class cabin know what my boss does to me just by existing.
Brad’s been staring at me for twenty solid minutes. Good. I wore this tight black dress and no bra for one reason: to make him suffer.
He's sitting across the aisle, Mr. Brad Carter, CEO, looking like a f*****g GQ model in a five-thousand-dollar suit.
For six months, he's been all business. Professional. Distant. "Ms. Rivera, have those reports on my desk by noon." "Ms. Rivera, reschedule the investors' meeting." Never Sloane.
Always the formal bullshit, even when we'd work late and I'd catch him staring at my legs under the conference table.
But tonight a
