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)
Tabby Burrows is broke, drowning in rescue cats, and just desperate enough to take a job from the terrifyingly massive man who never smiles and never blinks.
Duffield Murphy is an Irish mob boss with a soft spot for strays—and a brand-new itch only she can scratch.
When this little pink-haired stunner struts into his office wearing sparkling cat ears? He can’t stop thinking about all the ways he wants to play with this sassy pussycat. But he’s never done anything with a woman. They always said he was too big. Too mean. Too much.
Until her.
She calls him sir without thinking. He calls her kitten—and means it. But when her sticky fingers break his one unbreakable rule, will he bend for love... or break them both?
Author’s High and hard on the heat. Light and low on the plot. Dive in, have your fun, then curl up for a little afterglow nap in the sunshine. No cheating. All purr. You’ve been warned.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Duffield
One 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.