Page 2 of Meow

"Yes." I grimace as my balls cramp and anxiety pools in my gut, an obsession growing inside me, wondering where Cat Ears disappeared to. "Unlike you, I don't shit where I eat."

My sister knows the truth—I've never had an assistant suck my dick. I've never had my dick sucked at all. I’ve never fucked. No one has touched me below the waist but myself. We don't discuss it, but she knows me too well for my comfort.

I avoid eye contact with women unless they work for me. Even then, I see disgust behind fake smiles or averted gazes. I haven't hardened for a woman in decades. My morning shower release is more chore than pleasure—a physiological necessity like washing my hair.

Ingrid half-laughs as Rocko and Pauly shift uncomfortably in their chairs. "You call it shitting, I call it job security. Male assistants handle a female boss's extracurricular demands better than the reverse. No HR complaints here, and even if they tried..." She checks her black nail polish, before settling her doodling pen down on the yellow paper, then rising to her full five foot four inches plus five-inch stilettos, spinning and moving toward the door.

I nod to my enforcers, noticing their hardened jaw muscles and Rocko's stifled groan, glad this little meeting is over, because I can’t fucking concentrate. "You two can go," I announce as my cock continues thickening, making the world unsteady beneath my size-sixteen shoes.

I barely register their three-hundred-pound frames lumbering out of the room behind Ingrid as I push to my feet, adjusting my painful erection and heading toward the other exit door of the conference room, toward the hallway that leads to my private offices.

My arousal grows, blood loss doubling my vision as I lumber down the hall following the heavenly cotton-candy scent that lingers in the air. I already know it's her. Some primal intuition tells me her pussy would taste better than any sugary sweet carnival treat my tongue has experienced.

Two female staff members are heading my way. When they see me, their cheerful exchanges fall into silence, eyes dropping, shoulders pulling in, tucking tightly toward each other as they walk by.

Hunger gnaws at my insides with sharp teeth. I've never felt anything close to this. All the walls I've built against females and feelings crumble under each step toward her, as I pray—for the first time in my life—that when she looks at me, it’s not horror I see looking back.

The knot in my gut climbs upward, choking the air from my lungs as I turn the corner and catch sight of her walking alongside our HR head, who peppers her with questions.

My strides triple theirs, bringing me within earshot in seconds. I flatten my back against the wall, hanging back just enough to avoid detection, my head bumping the emergency exit sign mounted from the ceiling.

"This position is full-time and on-call twenty-four hours daily. Mr. Duffield needs someone available at any hour. Is that a problem?" Mrs. Yongston swings open my private conference room door, ushering the young woman inside with a sweep of her arm.

"I'm available at all hours," Cat Ears answers, each word stroking my cock like a skilled hand even as I note the saccharine sarcasm in her reply. The muscles down my back seize, forcing me to clench my ass cheeks and bite back a grunt.

I inch my way along the wall, drawing looks from workers in the open office area beyond the glass walls opposite me, but as soon as I narrow my eyes their way, they scurry from their desks toward parts unknown or find a sudden interest in their shoes.

I don’t give a ripe fuck when people stare at me. I’m a side show, but today the only attention I want is hers. Any other eyes on me feel like a violation. An intrusion on the moment when the dead parts of me flickered to life.

Another few inches and I’m close enough now to watch her mid-thigh painted-on black skirt tug around her perfect ass as she disappears through the door. My pulse skyrockets, sweat soaking through my shirt.

I begin to wonder if Ingrid slipped something in my coffee. She's played such games before—Adderall when I asked for aspirin—but this?

No. This is elemental. Primal. Visceral.

My cock stands at full attention as I round the corner toward my suite's back entrance. The closing door grants me one life-giving glimpse of creamy flesh, exposed by her too-short pencil skirt.

I clutch my chest, the pain there sending sparks into my vision. That doesn’t stop me. Neither does the thought that at forty-two, she could be my daughter. She's fresh, ripe, and will haunt my dreams every night for the rest of my existence. I already know this truth.

Fists balled, jaw clenching until I pop a filling and swallow the silver chunk through the lump in my throat, I lose my battle to remain hidden. I wrench the door open to my private interview room with such force that it dislodges from its hinges with a loud crack, hanging crooked in the frame as I enter.

"Mr. Duffield..." Margaret stutters, her eyes connecting with mine for only a split second before dropping to my shoes. "I was completing the pre-interview, but I don't think she's going to suit you—"

"Get out." The command tears from my throat, my gaze locked on the fragile form in the black skirt looking up at me through long lashes and big, green cat-like eyes that melt my core like Three Mile Island.

The sweetness I caught in the hallway nearly brings me to my knees. I would gladly kneel before this angel for one more sound of her voice.

I'm assaulted by visions of her pink hair matching her other pink parts as I swipe my hand across my lips, overcome by Pavlovian salivation imagining how her pussy tastes.

The only pussy I will ever taste. This is an absolute truth I already know.

Margaret skitters out the opposite door, dropping a few papers from the folder clutched to her chest. Thenhereyes connect to mine, a balm to my wretched soul as I shoulder the door back into the frame with a crunch and a thud, and twist the deadbolt, locking her inside with me.

The thought of her escaping is repugnant. My only peace will come from knowing she's by my side, waking beside me every day for the rest of my life.

Breathing is a struggle as she lifts a hand toward her lips, her delicate tongue dancing down the back as though tasting the world's sweetest dessert.

"Follow me," I command, but she ignores me, moving that tongue back into her mouth, and I’m lost in the magnificence of her lips. The sudden realization comes over me that the glass walls of this room won't do—the interview I have planned for my little kitten is for no one's eyes but mine.

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