Afterwards, he walks me back to my apartment—even though it’s just next door, and kisses me on the forehead, exactly as he did the first night as my boss.
We keep up this farce. He pretends I’m not basically a stray puppy he adopted, and I pretend I don’t want to hump his leg.
In short, I have a terrible crush on my boss. Reading about how he clawed his way up the roughest London mafia makes me tingle with pride. Seeing comments about how Croydon is the most dangerous part of London, and that you shouldn’t cross its kingpin sends electricity zinging down my spine. Waltham used to be influential, but I’ve heard nothing since I left, like Croydon has consumed me. Hidden me.
And the Devil of Croydon ismyboss. He chose me to work for him, and have dinner with him. I might just be his pet, but that’s cool. I’ll be his pet. If he strokes and feeds me, I’d wear a tail and lick… Literally any and every part of his body he’d allow.
The internet searches are not sufficient though. I’ve worked for Mr Anderson for two weeks, and I’m… Itchy.
I crave more.
And I guess that’s why when he mentioned that on Friday he was going to the London Mafia Syndicate meeting my mind whirled with potential… I assured him I was fine, and implemented the most stupid plan in the world.
Stealing from a mafia boss is suicide, I am aware of this. If he catches me, he’ll know it’s not for money. Not since the bank reached out to me and informed me that the account my parents left me has been verified as mine, and has a million in it. Apparently, my uncle and my idea of “nothing” vary somewhat. I’m still staggered it’s so much.
So, stealing from my boss would be for trophies. Pieces of Mr Anderson to treasure. But I’m not actually his puppy, and the key to his apartment is not a sock.
Plus, trespass? He has killed people for far, far less.
I hear Mr Anderson’s door open and close then wait as long as I can bear—about fifteen minutes—then let myself into Mr Anderson’s home, my phone in my hand to…
Yeah, look I have my new work phone because that thing has a kick-ass camera, and I’m not above taking some snaps to keep me going through nights without my boss.
I tell myself that I’m just looking around out of curiosity. To an extent, I back up that claim admirably, wandering through the rooms that I haven’t seen. I’m not surprised to discover a home gym with weights big enough to crush an elephant and wear marks that prove it’s not for show. His library is amazing. It’s fitted with pale wood bookshelves and a smooth hardwood floor and there’s aladder. I find my heart is ready to sail off out of the window when I see that it’s all thriller paperbacks.
He told me he enjoyed reading crime thrillers, the sort of pulpy ones you see in corner shops on a tiny shelf, and it was the truth. He has thousands, all with the spine broken down the middle and creased in the same two places on either side.
As brutal and uncompromising with his reading as he is with everything else.
I spend a few minutes imagining Kane with glasses on, sitting in that comfortable chair by the window, reading a book. My mind fills in me on his lap, or at his feet. His arm around my shoulders and his fingers tight in my hair to stop me from moving away.
Heat gathers between my legs, and I say to myself it’s to get rid of that vision that I leave the room and wander through the corridor, peeking in through doors.
But where I’m headed? Ooof, it’s his bedroom. Of course.
I know immediately that it’s his room, not a guest bedroom. It smells like him, to start with. The walls are painted a purple so dark it’s almost black.
Petrifying mafia boss has a bedroom the colour of his eyes when the pupils are blown.
It’s otherwise plain. A shelf of books, a suit hanging on the wardrobe door. My eyes are drawn to his bed. It’s predictably enormous, with black sheets in a fabric with a soft sheen.
My obsession has been fed by wandering around his home, and now it’s bold. Strong. Reckless.
I lie on the bed, flat on my tummy. My head on the pillow, I push my face into the softness and breathe it in. It smells like Kane. I don’t know about fancy aftershaves, or what’s sandalwood or black pepper or patchouli. All I know is that I want to roll in this like I’m a cat with catnip. Between my legs curls with sensation and I sniff again, trying to save it somehow. As though if I smell him enough here, I’ll remember it later… Later in bed, when my fingers are on my clit.
My breasts are squashed into the covers, and experimentally, I shift. The cotton of my top chafes my nipples and sends sparks showering down my torso.
Mmhm.
It’s a crazy instinct, but I shuffle my knees forward, until my butt is in the air, my little skirt exposing the knickers that my stalker gave me. Or a “mistake” by the online store. Huh. As if.
Or Mr Anderson? My heart slams at the thought. Maybe. Just maybe it was him.
A fantasy unreels in my mind, so very vague and instinctual. I’m here like a cat in heat. Mr Anderson could find me, rip off my knickers, and take me.
So dirty.
Warm tingles sensitise the back of my neck, as though the hairs are standing on end from someone’s regard.
