Addicted to Her: One Night with My Alpha Boss

Quinn POV:

When I woke up, I was lying in a massive, unfamiliar bed.

My temples throbbed with a dull, nauseating ache, my vision swimming as I stared at the geometric coffered ceiling above me. Last night had been the flagship collection's celebration banquet, and I had carelessly let myself drink two glasses of vintage champagne too many.

And then...

My fingers dug into the silk sheets, a sudden, scorching wave of heat rushing through my veins as memory snapped violently into focus.

That deep, guttural groan of his, rough and heavy with an intoxicating, territorial fever, was still echoing against the shell of my ear like an unholy spell. The phantom friction of burning skin, the breathless pants muffled against the crook of my neck, the ruthless, iron clamp of his large hands pinning my hips to the mattress—it all rushed back in a dizzying, suffocating wave. My face ignited crimson, and the dormant, sensitive gland at the nape of my neck gave an involuntary, feverish throb.

Even now, the cold morning air in the suite was saturated with the lingering aftermath of an unsuppressed S-class Alpha rut—dense, freezing Siberian cedar tangled with bitter frost and the faintest, sweet exhaustion of my own crushed freesia.

I cut off my spiraling thoughts immediately. I needed to get out of this dangerous territory before whoever owned this room returned.

Reaching down over the edge of the mattress, I picked up the white silk shirt lying crumpled on the hardwood floor. The delicate fabric had been completely shredded down the front seam, the pearl buttons ripped clean away by fingers that had lost all civilized restraint under the influence of primal hormones.

Could this even be worn outside?

My trembling hand tossed the ruined silk aside.

Right by the foot of the bed sat a clean garment bag. It had obviously been left behind by him—a sharp, structured charcoal skirt suit with a high standing collar. I slipped into it in a hurry. It was definitely not my usual style, most likely bought off the rack from an emergency luxury courier just to handle the morning aftermath.

Heading into the adjoining marble bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror and froze.

I turned my head, inspecting the pale, sensitive curve of my nape. The skin directly over my scent gland was unbroken. There was no permanent mating bite, not a single visible puncture from an Alpha's canines.

But right beneath my collarbones?

Absolute, unmitigated chaos. Feverish crimson marks, dark bruised bites, and lingering friction burns trailed across the porcelain slope of my chest all the way down to my ribs.

Ha! Should I actually compliment this man on his aristocratic chivalry?

Even in the feral delirium of an unexpected rut, he had possessed enough terrifying discipline to keep his teeth off my scent gland, keeping my neckline completely spotless so nobody in high society would discover he had bedded an unregistered employee!

I let out a shaky breath, adjusted the stiff collar of the suit to cover the burns, and grabbed my clutch from the vanity.

This was a massive penthouse suite, completely stripped of any lived-in warmth. It did not look like a hotel, yet in many ways, it felt just like one.

I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the living pavilion.

Sure enough, it was a private residence.

A sprawling, minimalist salon stretched out before me, framed by panoramic glass overlooking the Hudson. And sitting right in the center of the leather sectional was a figure that made the breath catch dead in my throat.

He wore high-end black silk loungewear, wireless noise-canceling headphones over his ears, lounging on the sofa with an ergonomic pillow propping up his laptop. He looked indolent, effortless, and strikingly aloof.

Hearing my hesitant footsteps on the parquet, he slowly lifted his deep, piercing gaze.

The man sitting there was none other than my supreme corporate ruler, Winston Kensington...

Wasn't he supposed to be the untouchable, chaste monarch of the luxury fashion empire? The man who wore a Level VII titanium scent collar to board meetings and was rumored to be biologically immune to Omega pheromones?

Judging by his unhinged appetite last night, that monastic restraint was a total joke. He had not been practicing discipline; he had acted like a starved apex predator unleashed after a decade of solitary confinement.

I stood frozen in shock, my lips parting to speak, but Winston beat me to it.

"I am in a board briefing," he murmured, his deep baritone gravelly and dark with disuse.

I clamped my mouth shut instantly, knowing full well what an executive meeting entailed.

"Come here," he said calmly. "Have some breakfast."

He leaned forward slightly, his long, slender fingers pushing a warm glass of honey water across the marble table, nudging it toward a porcelain plate with a breakfast sandwich identical to his own.

As he leaned forward, the loose silk lapel of his loungewear fell open.

My heart practically stopped—the high-definition webcam on his laptop was angled directly toward his chest, framing the violent, inflamed crimson scratches and teeth marks running across his throat and collarbone. If the video feed was active, every single executive on that EMEA conference call was looking straight at my frantic handiwork.

My face burned so hot it felt like molten iron.

Those... were definitely left behind by my nails when his S-class pheromones had overwhelmed my senses midnight prior.

I silently prayed for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Shivering slightly, I sat down on the absolute edge of the sofa, keeping as much distance between us as possible, my eyes darting everywhere except toward his face.

All I could do was obediently sip the warm honey water to soothe my parched throat and nibble on the sandwich.

Winston Kensington was famous across Manhattan for being ice-cold. Cold temper, cold personality, cold blood.

I had truly kicked a titanium plate this time.

I must have stumbled into the wrong vehicle last night.

Just yesterday afternoon, I had discovered that Nolan Price—my fiancé of five years—was secretly entangled with my former friend Audrey Reynolds. The sheer nausea and humiliation had driven me to drink far too much at the afterparty, completely numbing my biological caution.

Getting into the wrong car to drown the bitter taste of betrayal was disastrous enough, but waking up to realize I had tangled with my own CEO was a catastrophic nightmare. How could a razor-sharp Alpha mistake who had stumbled into his car? Sleeping with an entry-level designer—did he not care about his family's pristine pedigree at all?

Fifteen minutes later, he concluded the call, tapped a key to kill the feed, and shut the laptop. He finally picked up his silver fork, eating with calm, aristocratic grace.

"My apologies," he said evenly, cutting into his meal. "I did not know it was your first time. In the heat of the rut, I was... somewhat too rough."

He was as detached as ever, speaking in the exact same clinical tone he used during annual shareholder resolutions, his chiseled face entirely devoid of emotion.

"Cough, cough..." Having just swallowed a mouthful of water, the red flush instantly rushed back into my cheeks in a burning wave.

What happened, happened! Did an apex Alpha really need to conduct a verbal post-rut performance review?!

"The family physician will be here shortly," he continued, not sparing my embarrassment a single glance. "Wait until your gland and vitals are examined before you leave."

Unbelievable. The moment the biological collision was over, he was calling in medical specialists. Was he terrified that my unbonded Omega system might conceive an unexpected heir to challenge the Kensington succession?

I drained the rest of the glass in one gulp, completely tongue-tied.

He finished his portion with efficient speed, setting his linen napkin aside.

"Wait here. I have an emergency acquisition review at headquarters today. I will have Liam drive you back to Queens."

I urgently cut in, rising from the cushion. "Lord Winston, I can take the subway or hail a cab on my own, it's really no trouble at all."

Winston paused, buttoning the cuffs of his silk shirt. He lifted his slate-gray eyes slightly, looking faintly, inexplicably aggrieved.

"Are you blaming me for not performing well last night?"

For some ungodly reason, my heart hammered like a trapped bird against my ribs.

Quinn POV:

How on earth could an entry-level designer dare criticize an S-class Alpha's stamina?!

My mind went completely blank, tongue-tied and utterly incapable of countering his absurd, deadpan accusation. For the first time in my life, I was thoroughly crushed in a battle of words. If he weren't the multi-billionaire monarch who held my career in his hands, I would have overturned the marble coffee table and wiped that composed smirk off his face right then and there.

"Lord Winston, Dr. Bloom has cleared the biometric gate," an older housekeeper announced quietly from the vestibule.

Winston did not reply immediately, his dark gaze resting silently on my flushed cheeks.

My skin prickled with unbearable heat. With porcelain skin and naturally wavy blonde hair, my mixed heritage had always drawn unwanted attention, but beneath his unblinking Alpha scrutiny, the heat pooled straight down to my collarbones.

"Follow me," Winston finally murmured, letting out a low breath that carried the faintest trace of frosty cedar.

I followed him obediently back down the corridor. What choice did an unbonded Omega have when cornered by the apex predator of the luxury world?

He led me straight back into the master bedroom—the very battlefield where our hormones had collided hours prior. The sight of that massive California king made my palms break into a cold sweat, even though the staff had already stripped away the chaotic wreckage and dressed the mattress in crisp, spotless ivory linens.

A professional physician in a tailored charcoal medical coat stepped inside carrying a silver diagnostic case. Winston gave her a curt nod, turned on his heel, and pulled the heavy mahogany door shut behind him, leaving us in private.

I had braced myself for a hostile corporate interrogation, an invasive toxicology screen, or a forced hormonal flush to purge any trace of his genetic material.

It was none of those things.

Dr. Julianna Bloom snapped on sterile latex gloves, ran a gentle biometric scanner across my carotid pulse to verify my endocrine stability, and opened a jar of chilled, pharmaceutical-grade anti-inflammatory peptide balm.

"Loosen your collar for me, Miss Sterling," Dr. Bloom instructed with calm, maternal bedside grace.

I gingerly unbuttoned the top two buttons of the suit jacket.

Dr. Bloom scooped a generous dollop of the translucent gel and gently massaged it over the swollen, tender ring around my scent gland at the base of my neck, smoothing the cooling balm down across the raw, friction-burned hollows beneath my collarbones.

The icy salve worked instantly, numbing the throbbing, oversensitized ache left by his teeth and heavy pheromones. To finish, she peeled the backing from a high-grade, micro-thin medical barrier patch and pressed it firmly over my gland, locking away the lingering scent of his cedar so the outside world wouldn't smell his claim on my skin.

The entire time, I buried my face in both hands, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. It was mortifying beyond description.

By the time I took the private elevator down to the subterranean garage, Winston had already departed for corporate headquarters in his armored motorcade.

Leaning against the sleek black Maybach in the executive parking bay was Liam Foster.

Liam was twenty-two, the exact same age as me. We had graduated from the same design academy, applied to Kensington Luxe in the same recruitment drive, and started on the very same Monday. The only difference was that while I was grinding away as an entry-level textile sketcher, Liam’s razor-sharp social instincts had earned him the coveted role of Winston Kensington’s sole confidential assistant.

Seeing me emerge, Liam flashed a wide, scandalous grin that made my remaining dignity crumble to dust.

I climbed into the plush leather passenger seat, pressed my forehead against the cool tinted window, and groaned, "Did I... actually climb into the wrong vehicle last night?"

"You certainly did, future Lady Kensington," Liam chuckled, throwing the luxury sedan into reverse. "I have known you for four years, Quinn, and I have never seen you drink that much alcohol. You stumbled into the rear cabin, saw the boss sitting in the corner, threw both arms around his neck, and started planting kisses all over his jaw. You were completely fearless!"

Liam glanced over at me with an amused smirk. "The boss was already running a slight fever from an approaching quarterly rut, and you know the man has severe physical boundaries. He was practically paralyzed with shock, terrified to move a muscle, while your freesia pheromones completely flooded the cabin. You went ahead and tore his bespoke shirt wide open, popping half the mother-of-pearl buttons across the floorboards."

I slumped deeper into the seat, dragging my hands over my burning face as the horrifying scenes flashed behind my eyes.

"I offered to drop you off at your rental apartment in Queens," Liam continued, turning onto the expressway, "but considering you live alone and were in a dangerous pre-heat haze, the boss figured leaving you unmonitored was a biological hazard. So he ordered me to drive straight to his Tribeca penthouse instead."

"Ha. Ha." I forced a dry, lifeless laugh.

"So... you and the boss..." Liam glanced sideways, subtly scanning my neckline.

I had to give Winston credit where it was due. The man possessed terrifying foresight; between his discipline and Dr. Bloom’s barrier patch, my visible throat was immaculate.

"As you can see," I said, pointing a finger at my pristine collar. "Nothing to report."

"Looks like the boss was still too much of an honorable gentleman," Liam remarked with a low whistle.

"Right," I dragged out the syllable with pure sarcasm. "A gentleman. A total hypocrite."

It was the first working day following the major autumn fashion gala. Most of the corporate division heads were taking advantage of floating holidays, but junior contract workers like me still had to clock in on time.

I made sure Liam pulled over two blocks away from the Kensington Luxe glass monolith. His vehicle was registered to the CEO's personal fleet; if anyone from the creative floor spotted an entry-level designer stepping out of that Maybach, the office grapevine would tear me to shreds before lunch.

I slipped out at the corner, adjusted my trench coat, and darted straight into an 24-hour pharmaceutical apothecary.

Approaching the automated prescription counter, I scanned my ID and purchased a heavy-duty, dual-action morning-after scent-neutralizing contraceptive kit.

An apex S-class Alpha's rut carried an alarmingly high fertility rate. Even if he had managed to pull back before completing a permanent knot, I was taking zero chances with my future.

I popped the bitter tablet out of its foil blister and swallowed it dry with a grimace, determined to eradicate any lingering trace of his biology before it could take root.

Quinn POV:

Just as the bitter chemical aftertaste settled in my throat, my terminal began to vibrate violently against my palm.

The screen illuminated with Nolan Price's name, sending a fresh wave of visceral disgust straight to my stomach.

I stared at the glowing caller ID, a cold, mocking smirk touching the corner of my lips. Nolan was a mid-tier Alpha whose weak, unstable agave scent had once seemed familiar, but after waking up drenched in Winston’s pure, suffocating Siberian cedar, the mere thought of Nolan made my instincts recoil in revulsion.

Two years of my postgraduate guild studies in Milan had apparently been far too long for his fragile fidelity. Yet even after discarding five years of our shared history to secretly roll in bed with Audrey Reynolds, he still possessed the sickening audacity to call me as if nothing had changed.

I hadn't confronted him or Audrey yet. I had zero desire to waste emotional bandwidth on undignified screaming matches in public. I was waiting for the ideal stage to drop a tactical bomb and obliterate their social standing in one clean strike.

Without answering, I swiped the red icon and severed the call.

Just as the display went dark, a crisp, encrypted ping chimed across my terminal’s high-frequency Scent ID network.

A new pairing request had arrived:

Winston Kensington.

I froze on the concrete sidewalk, staring at the notification for several seconds to ensure my sleep-deprived eyes weren't hallucinating.

Under what capacity was the supreme ruler of Kensington Luxe attempting to link our biological profiles? As my employer? Or as the dominant Alpha who had pinned me to his sheets six hours ago?

Linking Scent IDs allowed partners to share real-time pheromone vitals and geographic tracking.

I gritted my teeth and tapped Decline without a second of hesitation.

I was an entry-level textile designer who had only been with Kensington Luxe for twelve months. Aside from my direct department head, Julian Vance, I had zero reason to interact with senior vice presidents, let alone the man who owned the entire multi-billion-dollar dynasty.

Kensington Luxe was the undisputed titan of the domestic luxury sector, dominating international runways and commanding billions in global revenue. Under ordinary circumstances, an unbonded designer from modest roots would never cross paths with someone of Winston's patrician bloodline.

Last night was a chaotic biological anomaly. The holiday showcase had shattered all historical retail records, which was the sole reason the reclusive CEO had made a rare appearance at the private VIP reception in the first place.

Suddenly, a red priority notification flashed across our design department channel:

All creative personnel report to Conference Room 28 for an emergency debriefing in ten minutes.

Ten minutes!

I gasped, shoved my terminal into my leather tote, and sprinted toward the soaring glass facade of the Kensington Luxe skyscraper.

Inside the marble lobby, I rushed toward the central elevator bank and bumped right into a familiar face.

"Quinn! You usually detest wearing restrictive business attire," Chloe Sullivan teased, looking me up and down with keen, sparkling eyes. "What prompted the tailored corporate skirt suit today?"

Chloe was a fellow junior designer in my division. It was true; I despised stiff, formal suits that chafed against my skin.

I forced an easy, casual smile, tugging the structured lapels higher over my collarbone. "To project an image of undeniable executive competence, of course. Sometimes you have to put your professional assets on display."

"Pfft..." Chloe giggled, glancing down at my curves before playfully delivering a firm, congratulatory smack to my backside. "Whoever ends up bonding with you is the luckiest Alpha on earth!"

Hiss—!

A sharp, agonizing throb radiated through the deep muscle bruising on my hips. An S-class Alpha's grip during the height of a rut was devastatingly powerful, and my lower back felt like it had been crushed in an industrial vice.

I clenched my jaw, forcing the breathless whimper back down my throat.

Just as the elevator doors began to glide shut, a broad, manicured hand reached through the threshold, triggering the optical safety sensors.

The heavy brass doors slid back open.

Liam Foster stepped inside, holding the door back with crisp professionalism. And stepping in right behind him was Winston Kensington, draped in an imposing, hand-tailored pitch-black three-piece suit.

His dark hair was combed back with aristocratic precision, his silver-rimmed glasses resting on the high bridge of his nose, and the titanium Level VII scent collar locked securely around his throat gleamed faintly under the elevator lights.

Chloe and I instinctively pressed our backs against the brass handrail to make room.

My breath locked in my lungs. Winston took a step forward, turning to face the doors, positioning his massive frame directly beside my shoulder, while Chloe stood slightly ahead of us.

I did not dare lift my eyes.

Even with his high-grade collar engaged, the crushing, ambient atmospheric gravity of an apex S-class Alpha rolled off his broad shoulders in silent waves. The air inside the confined cab grew impossibly thin, thick with an invisible, suffocating static that made my heart hammer in wild panic against my ribs.

Worse still, beneath Dr. Bloom’s barrier patch, the sensitive skin of my scent gland began to prickle with sudden, traitorous heat, recognizing the very man who had overwhelmed it hours before.

A burning crimson flush crept from the back of my neck all the way to my ears.

Trapped in the crowded elevator car, shoulder to shoulder with the man who had torn my clothes to shreds, there was nowhere left to run.