Mondays were hell. The kind of dull that pressed into your skull and made everything taste like paper, even the coffee. My screen was filled with numbers I didn’t care about, emails I didn’t want to read, and that goddamn flickering light above the copy machine hadn’t stopped since last week. I was deep in a spreadsheet I’d been fake-staring at for ten minutes when my phone buzzed against my thigh.
Unknown number.
You still want me in your bed tonight, Daddy?
I read it twice.
Then again.
It was obviously a mistake. Wrong number, maybe. Or a prank. But even through the glow of my screen, the message sent a pulse straight to my d**k. There was no punctuation, just breath. Like it was whispered.
My thumb hovered. I should’ve ignored it. But boredom makes you bold.
Me:Wrong number.
Me:
