I’d always kept myself away from others, preferring solitude because my gruff nature tended to turn people off, scared them and had them crossing the street to avoid me. I’d been without any kind of companionship for so long it was now a distant dream. But that had been fine with me. I hadn’t needed anyone but myself.
That was… until I’d seen the picture of her, and that had all changed.
But seeing her in the video monitor as she waited at the gate for me to let her in, seeing her in real life—as real as it could be at that moment—something primal and brutal awoke within me.
I sat behind my desk and watched as she drove up the driveway, the security cameras located sporadically around the property giving me every angle possible to watch her. I felt no shame or even guilt at the fact that I watched her every move. And when she pulled up to the front doors and just sat there, staring at the estate, I wondered if I’d scare her away. I did that to plenty of people.
When she climbed out, I felt absolutely zero remorse in how I devoured her body with my gaze. She wore these little cut-off shorts, ones she’d probably end up changing out of sooner rather than later because the air up here was chillier—which was a damn shame. She had legs that were toned and long, and I imagined them wrapped around my waist.
Her T-shirt was thin and white, her bra slightly visible under the light material. And her breasts... fuck, her breasts were high and a perfect handful. My fingers itched to be molded around them.
She had womanly curves, flared hips, and a round, perfect peach-shaped ass.
I sat behind my desk and curled my hands around the wood, my nails digging into the top of it. My cock was rock-hard, and I reached down to adjust the fucker, a harsh groan ripping from me when I touched it. I could’ve jerked off right now to the sight of her, come so hard that it saturated the front of my slacks.
Fuck, when did I become a dirty bastard?
The moment I first saw her, that’s when.
She stopped at the stone steps that lead up to the front porch, tilted her head back, and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Her shirt rose up a little bit, a swatch of her creamy, golden skin coming into view. Another animalistic growl left me.
Truth of the matter was, I didn’t want her as my fucking cook or housekeeper. I wanted her in my bed, under me, as I plowed between her thighs and made her take every single last inch of me.
I continued to watch her as she walked up the steps. I adjusted the camera view so it was now pointed at her face. Her pixie-like features were delicate, feminine. I found myself lowering my head slightly yet keeping my gaze locked on her image. I felt so fucking... feral.
Her long dark hair brushed the center of her back, and when the wind picked up and blew the tendrils around her cheeks, I felt my heart pound fiercely in my chest. I’d never had this reaction before, never felt fire in my blood, this demon clawing at my gut, wanting to get free, wanting to mount her, to fuck her.
I wanted my mark on her, a testimony to any male who looked in her direction that she was taken. And if they tried to have her, I wanted them to see me and know that with one look I’d tear them limb from limb.
I forced myself to move away from the cameras, stood, adjusted my raging hard-on, and told myself to bring back that aloofness, that disinterest for the human population and I’d be able to get through this initial meeting.
She’d have questions; I was sure plenty of them. I had no doubt she’d done her research on me, had seen the rumors plastered across the Internet. And to be honest, a part of me worried what she thought about me. I’d never given a fuck about anyone’s opinion up until now.
And if she tried to delve deeper? Hell, I didn’t have an actual backstory to why I was like this. I’d never been a “people person.” I always stuck to myself, being an only child with parents who were far too busy with their careers to worry about entertaining their son. But I harbored no ill will toward them, and instead used that time to hone in on skills. I taught myself how to play the piano, learned two languages. I practiced archery, woodworking. I learned the layout of the acreage we owned and studied my father’s business so that one day, after he retired, I could run it successfully.
And that day had come five years ago when he and my mother decided to finally retire in the south of France. And after they moved away, I built a house on the hundred acres my family owned for the last three generations.
I exhaled slowly and made my way out of my office, hearing the doorbell ring as soon as I took that first step that would have me descend into the foyer and to the front door.
The closer I got to the door, the more I felt her. I swore I could smell her, could feel her heat, hear her heart beating. I had no doubt she was nervous. I’d seen that anxiousness written on her face on the security monitor as she bit her bottom lip, her straight, little white teeth pulling at the flesh.
I imagined doing that myself, marking her body, putting my claim of ownership all over her.
And then I reached out and opened the door, knowing without even saying an actual word to her, without having seen her in person, that I’d make her mine.
No matter what.
Chapter 3
Kitty
The door opened, and I was instantly taken aback by the sheer size of the man standing right inside the entrance.
Finland Hawthorne.
My new employer.
A giant-sized man.
My eyes were level with his lower chest. Yes. His lower chest. He was so tall, so wide and muscular that he was like this statue of rock-solid marble in front of me.
I lifted my gaze up his massive, towering form, my head tilted back, my neck craned so I could look into his face. I’d never in my life felt tinier than I did in this moment. This man was monstrous in size compared to me.
His shoulders were broad, his arms looking so thick I wondered if he could crush bone with little effort. The dark, long-sleeved shirt he wore couldn’t hide his muscles; in fact, I was pretty sure they accented them. And his gray slacks covered tree-trunk-sized thighs. He had to be well over six-and-a-half feet tall of solid strength.
The most impure thoughts slammed into my head, ones I shouldn’t be thinking about concerning a stranger, but especially about my boss.
I actually felt myself blushing at the lewd image playing on a reel in my mind.
How would it feel to be under him? How much would it hurt to have him inside me? I had absolutely no damn doubt his dick was the size of my forearm, and on that thought—on that image—I broke out in a cold sweat.
I swallowed, my throat tight, realizing we’d just been standing here, me checking him out, Finland Hawthorne obviously noticing that. I was instantly humiliated that our first encounter was him noticing me all but eye-fucking him. And that was a pretty good description of what I’d been doing.
I stared into his eyes, ones that reminded me of an icy blue tundra. The shade was what I imagined the ocean looked like far north, where it was frigid and barren.
His jaw was cut severely, square, and couldn’t be called anything but masculine. Although I could tell he was freshly shaven, he still sported a five o’clock shadow, as if every part of his body refused to fall in line, to follow the rules.
My face was on fire, and I cleared my throat and started rubbing my hands up and down my shorts. It was then I looked down at myself, realizing how unprofessionally dressed I was. I closed my eyes and cursed internally.