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)
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.
1
SERAPHINA
PRESENT DAY
I’m here before anyone else, minus the security at the front desk and a few of the cleaning staff from their overnight shift. I make my way through the skyscraper of a building: all glass, gleaming steel, and perfectly poured concrete make the bulk of my place of employment. Whereas most people would prefer to be high in the clouds, I’d much rather be on the first floor. There’s more to see, people to watch, and conversations that linger.
“Good morning, Ms. Seraphina. You’re here earlier than normal,” Harvey, the day shift officer, greets me when I make my way inside.
“Good morning, Harvey. The big guy wants his schedule changed. Therefore, duty calls,” I reply with a small wink. Truth be told, I also have a report that needs another look and is also the reason I woke up this morning well before my alarm clock blared to life, whereas I’d usually wake up and start the day with a Pilates routine or at the very least a few stretches.
Today, that wasn’t in the cards. The slow drizzle and fogginess clogging my brain meant doing something different. I sat on the couch with a blanket draped across my lap as I drank a hot cup of lemon water. The television stayed turned off, my ringer kept on silent, and I only turned on a few soft lamps while I watched the weather change as the sun slowly crept up in the horizon.
“You better be careful. One day, Mr. Montero will hear you call him that.” I shake my head. Rafe Montero is not the early-bird-gets-the-worm type of guy, he’s more likely to come in around ten o’clock in the morning and leave around the same time at night. We’re complete opposites in every sense of the word.
“Will do. Have a great day, Harv.”
“You do the same.” I make my way toward the bank of elevators, press the up button, and don’t have long to wait, thanks to being here before any of the other head honchos or their assistants. I step inside, press the button for the thirty-seventh floor, and the doors close behind me. Even the elevator is glass, you can see the outside world on one side and the interior of the building on the other. It’s a little bit disconcerting, especially when you’re on the other side waiting.
What seems like less than a minute later, the doors slide open, and I step out and into the area that houses Rafe Montero’s space. There’re other business entities within the building and on higher and lower floors. I guess it depends on how much you’re willing to spend on the space.