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)
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.