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)
One hand wraps around the ledge, knuckles turning white as a tidal wave of sensations roll through my body. My orgasm hits hard, violently, and explosively. My vision goes white behind my closed eyelids. “Rafe.” His name escapes my lips. The fluttering of my pussy doesn’t stop, if anything, it goes on longer, making me feel suspended, weightless, and burning as the pleasure consumes me body and soul.
By the time I take my fingers off my aching pussy, I’m slumped against the back of the tub, floating in deliriousness, and my limbs feel like lead, heavy and beautifully useless. I stay where I am, allowing the tremors to continue rippling through my thighs, and bask in the glowing candlelight. All I can think about is if my orgasm is this strong with only my fingers, I’m not sure I’ll be prepared if Rafe ever gets his hands on me. God, I hope he does.
5
SERAPHINA
“He sleeps,” I mumble softly, pausing outside of Rafe’s office the next morning. While I’ve only been working for him for a little bit, I’ve yet to see him so much as nap here, let alone deep in a coma-like slumber. This version of him—not composed, not intimidating, not the ruthless, impossible man who could dismantle a boardroom with one singular look, just asleep—is absolutely wreaking havoc on me.
Rafe’s tie is off, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. Apparently, he never bothered with his suit jacket yesterday, and I wasn’t above doing a little gawking, either. He has one arm thrown over his head, the other resting across his stomach. His dark hair is a mussed mess, probably from sleep and his fingers running through it with frustration.
The folded blanket sitting on the back of the couch never made it onto him. In fact, the stack of papers, opened laptop, and copious coffee cups on the table tell me exactly what happened. It’s clear the discrepancy caused some kind of chaos, even if he tried to portray otherwise.
My gaze snags on the stubble coating his jaw and the strong line of his throat where the top of couple of buttons of his shirt are undone. My brain is clearly working against me, supplying vivid memories from last night—my hand sliding between my thighs, the helpless gasps and moans that tumbled from my lips, and the cooling bathwater against my skin.
Even after the orgasm last night, it didn’t stop me from waking up this morning thinking about Rafe pinning my wrists above my head, saying my name in a low rough voice, and finally snapping after months of tension, lingering looks that lasted a second too long.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Seraphina Westwood, get your shit together,” I mutter under my breath, feeling the heat rise from my chest to my cheeks. I took care of the problem last night, thoroughly, and more than once. Somehow, it’s only making things worse.
I stand frozen in the doorway, staring far longer than is appropriate, especially at your boss. I know how much I want him, and I know how badly he wants me. That’s the infuriating part in all of this. If the stubborn, bull-headed man would stop fighting himself every minute, maybe we both could be put out of our misery.
I’m about to turn around to start my day, but I’m caught when his forearms flex, exposing his firm muscles even in his sleep. I’m lusting over a sleep-deprived workaholic sprawled across a couch before the office is even open. This is pathetic.
Rafe stirs, and it causes my spine to straighten. I really wish I had something to hold on to because clearly, my sanity is slipping. His brow furrows, then his eyes blink open slowly, heavy with exhaustion.
He looks soft.
Then he looks my way and smiles. Not the sharp, aggravated-with-life expression, either. No, this is sleepy. Real, even. It also hits me with an overwhelming force.
“Either I’m dreaming or you started breaking into the office to stare at me,” he murmurs, his voice raspy with sleep.
“I wasn’t staring.” My pulse spikes. Rafe Montero always seems to think I’m staring at him, and while that may be partially the truth, okay, fine, it’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I’m not going to admit that to him.
“Mhm, sure.” His sleepy smile does more to me than I expected.
“You were unconscious. It was more along the lines of assessing if you were still breathing or not.” Rafe really doesn’t need me to admit what I was doing.
“Sounds romantic.” I roll my eyes at his response. He pushes himself upright, slightly wincing as his neck cracks. His open shirt stretches open, and I avert my eyes from gawking further. “You know,”—God, his voice, low and gravely, warm enough to melt me to the core—“most people attempt to wake one up before conducting a medical evaluation.”