Page 7 of Meow

"So eloquent, my brother." Ingrid's black-tipped fingers drum against my desk, making irritating clicking sounds. "Your little kitten's causing quite the stir. She used the breakroom microwave on a cream-filled donut until it exploded. Margaret nearly had a stroke."

My lips twitch. "Good."

"She's achild," Ingrid reminds me, but I see the humor in her eyes. She knows I'm gone hook, line, and sinker for the pink-haired terror disrupting our carefully-crafted workplace hierarchy.

"She's eighteen," I correct, the words tasting like salvation on my tongue.

"You've checked her ID?"

I haven't, but I will. Today.

Maybe.

But maybe not. Because if she’s not eighteen? I come to terms quickly with the fact that it would have little effect on the things I intend to do to her.

My mother told me I was a monster. I’ve proven it over and over. This is just one more item for the file of evidence in favor of my non-human status.

"Isn't it time for your quarterly 'scare the shit out of the accountants' meeting?" I deflect, nodding toward the clock.

Ingrid rises with a knowing smirk and a sigh. "Just remember—she hasn't seen the real you yet." She wiggles aperfectly manicured nail in the air toward me. "What happens when she does?"

The question stabs like a rusty blade. What happens when she realizes what I do? Who I am? When the novelty of her defiance meets the reality of my world?

She thinks I’m Mr. Duffield, CEO of Bark and Purr Pet Supply and its chain of high-end stores. She doesn’t know the façade this is. The blackness in my core. What I’ve done to rise to my position in a world beyond the polite veil of society.

As Ingrid saunters out, Tabby glides in, holding a black coffee mug just like the one she spun off the edge of my desk during her interview. She smells like fucking cotton candy, and my salivary glands go into overdrive.

"Your two o'clock meeting with someone named Fredrick O’hannlan is off the books," she announces, taking a sip out of the mug, her voice silky and completely unconcerned with proper workplace etiquette. "Something about his wife going into labor."

She shrugs like it's no big deal that he chose his wife's delivery over our meeting. The man will pay for that later, but not today. Today, I have better things on my mind.

"Clear my schedule for the rest of the day," I command, rising to my full height. I tower over her by more than a foot, yet she doesn't flinch. Instead, those cat-like eyes glint with mischief.

"Why?" she challenges, and I feel my control slipping another notch.

"What did I tell you about asking questions?" I move around the desk, backing her toward the wall. She should be terrified, but instead, her pupils dilate, her breathing quickens. My little kitten likes the danger.

"I forgot," she purrs, tilting her head. "Remind me."

I'm so close now I can feel her body heat radiating against me. My hands itch to grab her, pull her against me, show her exactly what she does to me.

I don’t bother answering. Instead, I tap on my phone a message to Margaret, telling her to clear my schedule. As much as I want Tabby with me twenty-four hours a day following my every command, I don’t want her doing menial tasks like my scheduling. I want her riding my cock and passing out in my arms after I fuck her rotten, begging daddy for a break from all the orgasms.

I shove my phone into my jacket pocket and nod to the door, making a mental note to shatter these glass walls and have solid, non-see through ones built pronto.

"Come with me," I mutter, grabbing her pink purse, adorned with glittery cat ears, from where it sits beside my desk. "Now."

I see the understanding flash across her face, followed by a hunger that matches my own. Without another word, she turns on her heel as I lock my meaty fingers around her wrist and drag her out of the office toward the closest room I know that doesn’t have windows. My cock throbs painfully as I urge her in front of me, watching the sway of her hips, the bounce of her pink hair.

The hallway is quiet as she leads the way, her flats making soft padding sounds against the polished floor. The staff we pass avert their eyes, giving us a wide berth. Smart.

I follow her into the large supply closet at the end of the east corridor—the one furthest from the main hub of activity. It's the size of a small bedroom, lined with shelves stocked with everything from printer paper to those ridiculous stress balls HR ordered for "employee wellness."

The door clicks shut behind us, and for a moment, we're in darkness. Then, the automatic light flickers on, illuminating her face as she turns to me.

"Are we here to discuss my half-day performance review?" she asks, backing deeper into the room as I advance.

"Something like that." My voice is barely recognizable, strained and needy. I reach her in two strides, crowding her against the metal shelving. "ID."

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