Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
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.