Meow

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Duffield

O ne second, I'm instructing my enforcers on how to encase my competitor's feet in concrete before sending him to the bottom of the Detroit River, and the next?

Every inch of thick Irish meat I’m packing is granite-hard, the thrill of planning my enemy's demise slithering down my spine and out of the room in search of coffee.

What the fuck did I just see?

No, that’s not the right question.

What the fuck did I just feel?

"Who the fuck is that and why is she wearing cat ears?" I growl at my sister, stabbing a thick index finger toward the hall.

Ingrid is sitting across the wide walnut conference table, doodling shockingly accurate images of our enemies, alongside creative methods for dismemberment, on a legal pad—proof our muscle followed through on our orders.

My teeth clench at the sound of some pop princess song about girl power coming through the ceiling speakers as she pauses and nods toward the glass wall separating our conference room at Bark and Purr Pet Supply from the hallway.

"That?" She shrugs, circling something on her macabre grocery list. "Probably another replacement candidate for your assistant. You've interviewed fourteen this month. Can't find one suitable girl to fetch your coffee and suck your dick?"

I resist standing for a better view of the pink-haired flash topped with sparkly cat ears heading toward my office suite. Another candidate unable to meet my eyes, let alone agree to work for me.

But there’s something different about this one. With barely a glance as she passed, heat presses upward from my core, a bead of sweat trickling down my spine.

Ingrid sneers as my heart thunders. Rocko and Pauly, two of my best enforcers, sit stone-faced to my left, their gazes set forward, anxious to begin their day's work. They enjoy their jobs, and I reward loyalty generously. After ten years in my employ, they know to stay silent unless directly questioned or delivering someone's severed ear.

I've built an empire on body parts and intimidation, evolving into a hybrid of legitimate businesses and underworld dealings. Our most successful recent venture? A chain of upscale pet supply stores. People empty their fucking wallets for their pets. I should know. And I'm here for every cent.

It’s a prime set up for cleaning dirty money as well. Our dumpsters are full of ‘expired’ or otherwise unsalable food, and other ‘damaged’ goods, which sets up some nice losses and keeps our bookkeeping creative but plausible.

That's why I spend more time in our sleek Plymouth Avenue office these days than O'Hanley's Pub's grimy backroom on Gratiot—my unofficial headquarters for the last three decades. The darkness of my grandfather's bar suited me. Our family legacy set into every dented wall and every bleach-cleaned surface.

I wasn't built for the pretty world. My mother told me I was born a monster both inside and out. She never forgave me for arriving at thirteen pounds and twenty-three inches. In her telling, even the medical staff offered condolences instead of congratulations.

Over the years, I grew somewhat into my Cro-Magnon forehead, but my twisted face and hulking body have always either horrified or intimidated, especially the fairer sex. But I’m not a man to beg, not even in my horniest teenage years. I’ve never taken a knee to anyone, and especially not for pussy.

So I became what I am—a man without carnal desires. Numbness settled into my DNA and turned me into the monster my visage embodies.

I don’t desire a wife or a soft place to put my dick. Never has the urge to procreate nipped at my heels. I live, breathe, shit and dream about my business empire. It is my life. I have nothing else.

Except Seymour and Delilah.

Two kittens that I found in a rusty garbage can into which I was preparing to throw an enemy’s head. They were doing that little kitty squeak that isn’t quite a meow yet, looking up at me with eyes the color of four leaf clovers. I tossed the head into the open sewer grate instead, gave my hands a good cleaning with the bottle of hand sanitizer I keep in my inside suit pocket, scooped them up as the freezing rain came down, soaking their little heads as they nipped at my fingers and used their razor-like paws on the backs of my hands.

The rest is a rags-to-riches history for them.

Only Ingrid knows about my two four-legged roommates. In my world, weaknesses stay hidden, or they become weapons against you.

If anyone threatened my cats? There'd be no body parts to deliver. I’d turn them into a bloody milkshake of revenge one body part at a time, keeping them alive as long as possible as each appendage and pound of flesh was severed, and I’d let Seymour and Delilah watch.

"I don't get my dick sucked by assistants," I snap at my sister, the silence in the room starting to pulse. She pauses her doodling to toss me a quizzical look, then grins like she can see the filthy thought bubble above my head which right now is playing a little scene of me sitting behind my desk, one hand petting that silky soft pink hair I just saw walk by, watching those cat ears bob up and down as she services all twelve inches of the Irish sausage I’ve saved for her.

Ingrid smirks on a snort, sunlight catching her shocking blue eyes—one legacy from our father we both share—while her permanent devious smile mirrors our mother's humor.

Muted sounds of laughter seep through the walls from the offices adjacent to the conference room as I struggle to ground myself back into the work of the day. But the sound reminds me I don’t remember my last laugh. Or smile.

"Sure about that dick-sucking thing?" Ingrid raises a perfectly microbladed black eyebrow. She’s in yellow today, which makes her look a goth, runway model bumblebee, with her onyx black hair slicked back in her signature bun, two-inch fang shaped black fingernails tipping every finger and matching matte black Morticia-style lipstick.

"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. Then her eyes 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.

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 her still 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?"

She bobs her elegantly arched eyebrows — natural, not like Ingrid’s tattooed-on versions. Her gaze leaves mine to inspect her unpolished little fingernails, ignoring me completely.

"Let's talk compensation," she finally replies, as though she's running the fucking show. Her attention shifts to my half-filled coffee mug sitting to her left on the desk.

Her fingertips glide around its edge, then spin it playfully by the handle. Her knees part an inch as she wiggles her ass on my desk's hard surface.

"Name your price," I respond, an odd clicking in my chest as I move closer, the Detroit skyline creates a halo effect around her from the floor to ceiling windows behind.

She nibbles her lip—the first sign of insecurity. She needs this money. That's her weakness, and being the bad man I am, I'm here to exploit it.

"Three hundred?" A veiled tremor in her voice cracks my heart as her pink hair bounces around her jaw. The mug-twirling stops while she awaits my answer.

Three hundred? A week? I'd give this girl three hundred dollars for every second she breathes near me, but I'll let her offer hang.

"Three hundred?" I nod with a considering frown, stuffing my hands into my front pockets. "That's a lot. I need to see more of what I'm getting for that price."

Her eyes narrow as I think of everything I've never done that I want to do with her. Like sliding my cock between those magnificent tits until her face is flooded with my cum, then instructing her to open her mouth as I clean it from her flushed cheeks with a gold spoon and feed it to her.

"Spread your legs. I want to see if you've violated the dress code."

She blinks. Those long black lashes flutter, but after seconds of silence, her nose crinkles, defiance sets her jaw, and she parts her knees a few inches.

Then a few more, and I stop breathing entirely.

I drop hard into the chair before her.

"Pull your skirt up. Show me," I demand, expecting her to bolt while knowing she could try to leave, but I'll never let her go.

The floor creaks in protest beneath my weight. Blood thrills through my veins when instead of telling me to go fuck myself—which would be perfectly appropriate—her pink-tipped fingers start to shimmy the fabric up creamy thighs, bringing my control to its knees. Drawing breath becomes painful as I fixate on the still-shadowed space between her legs.

She's locked her eyes on mine, and for the first time in my life outside of maybe my sister, I've met an equal. I see zero fear in her too-young doe eyes, no loathing or disgust at the monster ordering her exposure. Internal turmoil has me fighting to maintain dominance with this soft, playful creature metaphorically sinking her teeth and claws into my heart and balls.

"There's a dress code?" She arches her back, thrusting her tits into the front of her blouse, exposing the hard little pebbles underneath. My heart skips as she makes a little popping sound with her lips, settling her knees wide enough for me to shove my face between them.

I imagine what sounds she'd make as I buried my tongue in her silky wetness. How loud would she be when she came undone? What would my name sound like on her lips as she fell into the abyss while I dug my fingers into her ass and lapped at her pleasure? Like the sounds I make slurping up that blessed ramen Ingrid orders us for lunch every Wednesday.

A spasmodic grunt catches in my throat at the thought. She quirks one brow as though she’s got that same superpower as Ingrid, reading my thoughts exposed in some girl power bubble over my head.

“Wider,” I grit out, giving up on distracting myself from the wondrous gift God or the devil has delivered to me this day.

The final inches of her spreading legs make time loop in and around on itself. Nothing is linear anymore; it’s all steep peaks and sudden drops. There's no air left as her skirt settles at the crest of her thighs and heavenly light casts away the last darkness between her legs, exposing black letters printed on that slip of fabric covering my new home.

Purrfect Girl.

Everything in my life before now turns to ash. Air turns to fire as I struggle for oxygen through the chokehold she has on me. I let my gaze travel upward, memorizing every inch on the journey to her smiling face, watching her delicate fingers walk across the desk and back to the rim of my coffee mug. They flutter around the edge as I imagine they would when tickling my fucking balls.

Through the lust haze, standing here gape-mouthed sucking in air, her cheek twitches, her shoulders hitch upward in a cute as fuck little shrug. She pulls her plump lips tight against her teeth, and twists the mug like a top, sending it spinning as her eyes lock on mine—

I motion toward the mug. "Wait, that's going to fall—" it’s too late. My little pink kitty gives it another spin, this time closer to the edge.

Her eyes narrow, her tongue runs along her upper lip before she smiles. “Oops.” Her bottom lip pops out and the porcelain mug crashes to the floor.