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)
One enormous hand—likely the same one just pleasuring himself—extends palm up, fingers snapping. "Give," he demands.
It takes a moment before I understand. Then I grin.
"You're kind of a jerk, you know that?" I withdraw the panties from my purse and place them in his waiting palm.
"You promised to do whatever I said. I expect obedience. But training takes time, and I'm willing to work on it."
"You can't train a cat," I challenge with a smirk, turning to give him a full view of my tail swishing between my legs, knowing my skirt rises just enough to expose the curve of my cheeks.
"Where's my desk?" I ask.
"You don't have one yet. I'm keeping you right here with me, so today you'll share mine."
I glance at the massive desk. "There's only one chair."
"Are you a lap cat?" he challenges, igniting wicked thoughts.
I love how he accepts my feline identity without question. His confidence makes the teasing and difficulties of my past evaporate. He doesn't need to change me.
"I can be. But you might end up with scratches."
"I'm good with that." He returns to his desk, sits, and pushes his chair back, patting his thigh.
What's a girl to do?
I slink toward him, swaying my hips deliberately before sliding onto his lap. My skirt rides up as I settle, the plug shifting inside me, sending sparks of pleasure up my spine.
"Good kitty," he growls against my ear, his enormous hands spanning my waist. "You followed my instructions beautifully."
I wiggle against him, feeling his hardness pressing against my bare skin. "Don't cats get rewards for good behavior?"
His laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my back. "They do." One hand slides beneath my skirt, finding me already slick and ready. "So wet for me already."
"Watching me must have been quite the show," I purr, rolling my hips against his exploring fingers.
"You have no idea." He nips at my earlobe, his fingers circling my sensitive flesh. "I've been hard since I woke up, thinking about you."
I gasp as he applies perfect pressure, my body melting against him. "Aren't you worried someone might walk in?"
"Let them." His voice darkens. "Let them see you're mine. That this—" his fingers dip lower "—belongs to me now."
He turns my face, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss while his skilled fingers work their magic. My body coils tighter, trembling on the edge of release.
"That's it, kitten. Let go for me," he commands against my lips. "Show me how good I make you feel."
His words push me over, my body convulsing as pleasure crashes through me. I bite my lip to stifle my cries, but he covers my mouth with his own, swallowing my sounds.
"Beautiful," he murmurs as I shudder through aftershocks. "But that was just the appetizer. Tonight, I'm going to feast on every inch of you until you're begging me to stop—and then begging me for more."
"Promise?" I challenge, voice still breathless.
His hand wraps gently around my throat, thumb caressing my racing pulse. "I don't make promises, little cat. I make guarantees."
Chapter Six
Duffield
"You kept her?" Ingrid's eyebrows shoot up as she watches Tabby on the security monitor.
My kitten moves between my desk and the filing cabinets, sorting through boxes of fake invoices I have her filing just to keep her in my office.
I didn’t pick her up myself this morning because I was here, supervising the crew I had brought in at four am to install retractable window coverings for the stupid glass walls in my office. I need fucking privacy.
"Be careful, sis," I warn, my tone leaving no room for debate.
Ingrid glances from me to the screen, surprise shifting to scrutiny as her eyes narrow. "You like her," she accuses, jabbing a manicured finger my way. A smile tugs at her lips. "Is this like like, or are you just enjoying the kitty's kitty?"
I growl, and she laughs—a sound I haven't heard since her tenth birthday. I remember that day vividly: her opening my gift, a make-your-own unicorn kit. All I could afford then. Her infectious laugh, her room-brightening smile. Her unicorn obsession.
I wonder where that little sister went.
Though I know exactly where. She disappeared the day one of our rivals tried to rape her. Tried. Failed. It was a month after our father was found behind our bar with a bullet in his head.
Someone was making a statement, but I ended up being the one with the megaphone.
I made sure the head of the family that sent their goon to rape my sister suffered—cutting off fingers, tongue, eyes—before finally slitting his throat and dumping what remained in the river.
Then, I got more creative with his brothers. His muscle. And finally, his father. That was the statement that needed to be made. I took my position that day in our city, and bloodshed has just become part of the game, not of just surviving in underworld businesses, but rising to the top.