I imagine it. Pushing off her little pyjama shorts, notching my hardness into her. Just the tip. I think of breeding her without her knowledge, and my cock throbs with the rightness of the vision of her growing rounded and lush with my baby.
Barefoot and pregnant, she would be mine to take care of in every way.
For two decades I’ve taken what I want by force. I’ve stolen and tricked and manipulated. I’ve killed remorselessly.
The Devil of Croydon takes whatever he wants.
So why I lie in bed with Lily, stroking her hair and breathing in her cherry scent until dawn cracks light back into the room and I sneak away, I don’t know.
10
LILY
Is it normal to google your boss compulsively, every night? Asking for a… me.
Jokes. It’s not normal. I’m not normal.
My life has been taken over by thoughts of a man with soft brown hair and sharp cheekbones. A square jaw and the most amazing violet eyes.
I tried to get information from the women at work. Subtly. They look at me like I’m nuts, and shake their heads. They say I don’t want to know about the Devil of Croydon. That people who ask questions about him end up in body bags.
I haven’t heard from my aunt or cousin, which is a relief, and I choose not to wonder why they haven’t found me.
Instead, my head is filled with Mr Anderson. The more we work together, and have dinner together, the more obsessed I become.
Evidence: I imagine I see him everywhere. I don’t spend a lot of time away from Mr Anderson, but when I go out to buy milk or take a walk, I see flashes of violet eyes in the strangers who pass by. I think I like—so much more than like—my boss to the extent that I’m attributing to him what’s just random good luck.
Repeat after me: billionaire mafia bosses do not stalk normal girls with brown hair and podge around the middle, who are half their age.
Also: stalking is bad, unhealthy behaviour and a sign of obsession, not love.
I wish he were stalking me.
Gah.
He’s been very kind, but if Mr Anderson stalked anyone, it’d be someone really special and beautiful. Someone who was his equal in brains and bravery. So as much as the evidence points that way, and I kid myself, I’m aware it’s a dream. Every time I convince myself that I’m being followed, and try to trap my stalker, I end up doubting my sanity. I feel him, but I can’t catch him.
Besides, it can’t be Mr Anderson. We’re together nearly all the time. I work in his office all day, then there are a few painful hours after work where I wonder if this will be the day that he decides he doesn’t want me to have dinner with him. I live for having dinner with him, and god but he’s so easy to talk to. About work, obviously, but other stuff too. Books and films and food. I don’t know a lot about the Waltham mafia, though I try to remember things that might be useful to him. But somehow it always ends up that I’m telling him about myself.
Every evening, he knocks on my door and asks me to taste whatever unspeakably delicious thing he’s cooked, or tells me he made too much pasta, or that the grocery service delivered two steaks instead of one. And I act surprised, then conceal that I’m finding ways to dawdle over my food like I’m a picky toddler so I can spend longer with him.
His portion control is terrible though. And he eats a lot of toasted cheese sandwiches for a man with an amazingly trim waistline. Not that I’ve been looking. Much.
Okay, I’ve spent the time between work and dinner with Mr Anderson—Kane, sometimes I allow myself the little treat of thinking of him by that name—examining every photograph of him that the internet can provide.
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.
