Page 3 of Meow

I close the space between us in two giant, lurching steps, blocking out the overhead light, casting her in my massive shadow. Yet she doesn't cower or look away. Instead, her pupils dilate, the green edge of her iris hypnotizing me as I search for—and fail to find—any trace of disgust or fear in her gaze.

"Guess you're the big boss around here," she purrs, cocking her shoulders back. This girl right here. Fuck. She’s all defiance in a soft pink package, and I’m here for it all. “Duffield, the boss,” she states. It’s not a question—more like a challenge, as though my position grants me absolutely no authority over her. The sound of her voice saying my name curls its claws around my heart and tugs, ripping, shredding it into pulp.

"I'm going to be more than that," I growl, tipping my head toward the other door on the back wall. "Your interview continues in there. With me."

She rolls her shoulders, lazily dropping her chin to her chest before raising it on a wry smile, taking her time with every slow, smooth movement.

"Can't wait," she winks, her tongue lashing against her lower lip before she pops them together, pushing out of the chair and sashaying ahead of me in long, languid strides.

On her feet are fuzzy ivory sort of flats, and rage hits my chest thinking of her walking outside in this weather wearing those. I don’t see a coat either. It’s spring, but it was chilly this morning. She should be wearing a coat.

And she should be carried everywhere. By me.

Her fearlessness in being led into a dark office by a monster only fuels my obsession.

Something about her rearranges my insides—rewiring me and dislodging a lifetime of disinterest in anything romantic or paternal.

"You work for me now," I finally say, the lights rising automatically as I wave my hand over the sensor on the wall. She meanders around the chairs facing my desk. The bare skin of her legs calls for my touch. She's nothing less than an angel sent to save me.

Watching her move is symphonic. The black skirt cinched by a worn leather belt, the white silk blouse billowing around her tits. I notice the forgotten price tag—99 cents—sticking out through the soft waves of her pink hair.

Her tits are larger than I first thought. I'm so close I could grab them with my twitching fingers.

"Is that so? What if I don't want to work for you?"

"You're here for a job. I hired you. You're mine now.”

Her raised eyebrows tell me my declaration hasn't intimidated this luscious creature one bit, despite my ominous size and stern words.

"Aren't you going to interview me?" That sassy challenge returns to her voice as a smile spreads across her lips. The pressure in my balls grows so intense that white sparks dance in my vision.

"Yes, have a seat." I point to a chair as a terrifying thought strikes me. "How old are you?" I blurt as her smile fades. We’ve hired workers as young as sixteen in the warehouse…fuck. Jesus, fuck.

I nod again at the chair, but instead of sitting where directed she hops onto my desk's edge, settling herself before yawning.

She. Fucking. Yawns.

This girl.

"In people years or cat years?" she finally asks, eyelids drooping as though naptime has arrived and I'm merely an annoyance keeping her from it.

"What?" My teeth grind together. I’m off guard with her. Unsteady. "Give me your name and your age. Right. Now." I clench and unclench my fists as a burst of precum dampens my boxers, making the floor feel like the deck of a ship in the throes of a tsunami.

She tucks soft pink waves behind her ears, locking her ankles and swinging them back and forth like she's at the park rather than facing a cold-blooded mobster twice the size of normal men and three times as ugly.

"I'm Tabby Burrows. I live at 1444 Princetown Lane. I'm eighteen years old."

Eighteen. Years. Old.

Those words ring in my ears like St. Christopher's fucking bells.

Just imagining her walking the world without my protection turns my vision blood-red. I'll never sleep again unless my arms are encircling her, keeping her safe from harm while I still breathe. And when I'm gone, I'll haunt her, protecting herstill and ensuring no man dares approach what's mine. Even in death, I'll never leave her.

Although, something tells me she thinks she can handle herself. But I'll be doing all the handling when it comes to Miss Tabby Burrows from now on.

She needs the defiance fucked out of her. Yet she also needs a lap to snuggle into—the same lap she'll be bent over when she needs an attitude adjustment.

"As my assistant, you will do as you're told. You will follow my rules. Can you do that?"

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