My Wounded Boss (Alphas in Charge #5)
Prologue
RAFE
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
The nightmares. They should have been there.
The moment my eyes snap open, sweat drenches the back of my neck, my chest, and my forehead.
The sheets are a tangled damn mess around my waist. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my rapidly beating heartrate.
For one violent second, I thought I was back there.
Overseas. Sand in my lungs, smoke in the air, and blood on my hands. Then realization hit. There was no gunfire. No screaming. No death.
Just her.
My pulse thunders. The darkness of the penthouse does nothing to calm me.
“Son of a bitch.” The words come out low and wrecked because this is somehow worse.
Usually, the nightmares hollow me out—shaking, angry at myself for coming back in one piece when better men didn’t.
When the ghosts claw through my head along with enough adrenaline in my bloodstream to last until dawn.
The only thing that calms the dark thoughts swirling in my head is working out, to tire myself out so much that I’m barely able to make it to the shower.
Tonight, I woke up just as hard, yet it was different. And the dreams I had, I shouldn’t be having.
Shit was so real, so raw, it was like Seraphina was there with me. No blurry dream fragments, no fleeting impression. Every detail seared through me with a clarity like no other.
I drag a rough breath into my lungs, swing my legs over the side of the bed, lean forward, and brace my elbows on my knees.
Seraphina Westwood, elegant yet dangerous.
Yesterday nearly did me in, her soft honey-brown hair hanging loosely down her back in soft waves, golden strands catching the light, and the smile she sent my way disarmed me.
Her amber-brown eyes made me want to see the colors they’d turn in a different capacity.
Full berry-colored lips and a smile that could make a man drop to his knees.
The white loose blouse she wore effortlessly, the deep V giving me a slight glimpse of the swell of her breasts, high-waisted black slacks hugging her long legs and full curves.
In my dream, she was in my lap, not in the building, not behind her desk, where she works just outside my office.
Nope, she was right here, in my penthouse, moonlight spilling over her milky skin while the city glowed behind her, thighs straddling my hips, her fingers slowly sliding through my hair while she looked at me like I’m not the demanding asshole boss I am at work, not the man with a past that still plagues him. She looked at me like she wanted me.
I shouldn’t have had one single dirty thought about my assistant, except I did.
I stand up abruptly, stalking out of my bedroom and toward the kitchen without a stitch of clothing on.
My bare feet are silent against the marble floors, and my body still feels too damn tight, restless muscle and restrained hunger.
I pull open the fridge door, grab a bottle of water, untwist the cap, and suck the contents down.
It doesn’t help. Fuck, nothing will help.
Not when my mind keeps replaying the dream in cruel, sensual flashes.
Seraphina leaning against me, chest pressed to mine, her mouth a breath away.
The delicate scent of honeysuckle and peach surrounding me.
Her palms flattening against my chest. And when she says my name on a whisper, I slam my eyes closed, refusing to bring up the rest.
I’m losing my damn mind. She’s my assistant, twenty-six years old, playful, confident, vibrant, and entirely off-limits.
Too damn bad the head between my legs can’t get with the one on top of my shoulders.
I brace my hands on the counter with my head lowered after discarding the empty bottle in the recycling bin.
Two weeks. That’s all it’s taken for her to get under my skin.
Two weeks of her walking into my office, taking my day by storm, floating in and out, rambling non-stop, not giving a fuck that I’ve only given her a grunt in response.
Two weeks of her soft voice cutting through the constant noise in my head, refusing to be intimidated by me.
Two weeks of my dick being in a constant state of hardness when Seraphina’s anywhere nearby. And believe me, she stayed close. Arching an eyebrow if I skipped a meal, calmly taking my whisky out of my hand after a sixteen-hour workday to replace it with either water or coffee.
Most people stumble over themselves trying to please me.
Entire boardrooms are stunned silent when my temper snaps.
And when I’m walking down the hall, others give me a wide fucking birth.
Not Seraphina. She looks directly into my eyes when she speaks to me, unflinching when I go dark inside.
And goddamn it all to hell, it makes me crave her more.
The realization settles heavily in my chest. I turn toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
The storms clouds are finally breaking apart, and beyond the skyline, lightning flickers in the far-off distance.
My reflection stares back at me. Forty years old.
Former U.S. Navy Seal, Spec Ops, short for keep your shit locked tight, get in and get out with minimal casualties and going dark for months at a time.
I’ve got too many scars, too many ghosts.
I’m standing here buck-ass naked in the middle of the night aching for a woman who smiles at me like pure sunshine.
I’m damn pathetic. Except the dream wasn’t only lust. That’s the problem.
If it were physical, I could handle it. Hell, I could take care of it.
My hand never did me wrong, and if it would keep me from putting my hands on Seraphina, that’s exactly what I’d do.
I’m now haunted by dreams of her and, swear to Christ, it felt like she was there with me.
The tips of her fingers brushing along my jaw while she whispered, "I’ve been thinking about this, about you, ever since the moment I first saw you.
Stay just like this. I want to memorize how you look at me when you think I'm not watching.
" My throat tightens, my balls draw tight, and my dick shows no sign of resting.
For the first time in years, I didn’t have a nightmare, I didn’t have a memory tearing me apart. I had her warmth, her softness, her mouth inches from mine, and it was the best fucking dream.
Later today, Seraphina will walk into my office wearing another one of those outfits that drives me up the damn wall.
She’ll hand me my coffee, smile at me, and I’ll have to act like I didn’t just spend the night dreaming about sliding my hands beneath her clothes and hearing her moan my name against my mouth.
I rub my hand down my face, laughing under my breath in disbelief. Combat didn’t destroy me. PTSD didn’t destroy me. It would be Seraphina Westwood and her soft eyes and sinful mouth that would ruin me, if I let her.