Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 108(@200wpm)___ 86(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
As a wounded veteran turned demanding boss, the last thing he wants is a distraction, especially in the form of the bright, chaotic energy of his new employee. Beneath her playful confidence, though, is a woman determined to prove herself — even if her brooding boss keeps pushing her away.
Seraphina is everything Rafe isn’t. She’s outgoing where he’s guarded, spontaneous where he’s rigid, and impossible to ignore.
The more they clash in the workplace, the more undeniable the tension becomes. When late nights at the office turn into stolen moments and guarded confessions, Rafe realizes Seraphina might be the one person capable of breaking through the walls he built.
My Wounded Boss is an instalove romance featuring a possessive alpha hero, sizzling chemistry, a fiery heroine, a broody hero, and a guaranteed happily ever after
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
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.