Heath—Twenty-Two Years Old
The Past…
“DIVERSIFICATION OF ASSETS WILL KILL us.”
I lift a brow, amused. “Seems dramatic.”
Mr. Crenshaw chuckles and his brown eyes flash with mischief. Just like hers. My empty heart that only ever beats for one quivers at the thought.
“I’m an old man. We’re allowed to elaborate,” he retorts before sucking in on his pipe. He blows out a plume of smoke that fills my lungs with toxins and familiarity. For his pipe was the very first memory I have of him. Tugging it from his grip. Banging it on the hardwood floors. Spitting out the tobacco after having a taste. Hell, my first word was probably pipe. My first everything is because of Rufus Crenshaw.
I owe him more than I could ever give him in return.
So for now, I give him my attention. I take notes. Mentally document every single word he says. The man is incredibly smart and rules C-Trades beautifully. He’s a multimillionaire, one whom I spend every waking minute aspiring to be like.
“We’re calling it ‘elaborating.’ Got it. Go on, Crenshaw. Tell me more about murderous economics.”
“We’re day traders, runt,” he explains, his lips tugging up on one side. “Market savvy gamblers, if you will. Diversification is all about safety. Eliminating risk. Our fortune is dependent on our ability to manipulate risk. We take the leaps our clients are afraid to take. Economic cliff jumpers. You just have to know where to jump.”
I chuckle and follow his gaze over to the mantle. The family portrait sits proudly, the spotlights affixed to the ceiling pointing at the picture. Crenshaw sits on a stool, a fierce expression on his normally smiling face. His eldest son, Hunter, who is my age exactly, stands behind him with his hand on his father’s shoulder glaring. Typical. I’m standing beside Hunter, my dark brown hair slicked back and my deep chestnut eyes narrowed. Calculating. But it’s who stands at the right of Crenshaw who makes the picture.
She fucking glows.
Catrina.
My everything.
In the portrait, she smiles as she’s supposed to. Prim and proper. It’s her eyes, though, that are wild. A wild I’ve spent my entire life chasing. Each time I think I have that wildness in my grasp, she wriggles away, taunts me some more, and the chase is back on.
I’ll chase her right into eternity.
“You hear me, runt?”
Unwillingly, I drag my eyes away from her long, silky chocolate-colored tresses. Away from her pouty lips just begging for a kiss. Away, away, away. But never for long. My eyes always find their way back.
“Runt?” I chuckle. “I passed you up years ago. Around the time I turned sixteen if I recall correctly.” I sit back on the leather sofa and adjust the knot on my tie. Reaching over at the side table, I pick up my tumbler of whiskey and take a swig. “Who’s the runt now?”
Crenshaw cackles. The old man is always so easy to please. He loves games and I’m the only one who entertains him with them. Crenshaw plucked me from the streets of the inner city where I was homeless, without a mother, and half starved. He pulled me from a life that would have been nothing but hunger and violence and despair.
He brought me home.
He made me his.
And he gave me her.
Stray, stray, stray…my eyes always stray. Her green eyes snare mine so easily, and from a picture no less. The powers she has over me, at just nineteen years old, are unexplainable. Otherworldly. An intensity that doesn’t die out with this lifetime, but will drag me into the next because we’re linked in a way that transcends everything.
Fucking everything.
“I have a meeting next week with a fellow from Switzerland. C-Trades is about to explode. Thanks to you, son.” Crenshaw regards me with fondness. Like a father. As though I am his son.
But his own son is lacking.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Hunter Crenshaw.
Knowing his own father sent him away to military school because he beat my ass one too many times, has satisfaction flooding through me. Crenshaw chose me over his blood. I fucking won. I always do.
“C-Trades was always meant to be a global conglomerate. This isn’t the dark ages. We have technology at our fingertips, so it would behoove us to utilize it,” I tell him, swirling the liquid around in my glass. I drain the alcohol, steal a glance at her, and then meet Crenshaw’s gaze. “Branching out in other countries is wise.”
He smiles at me fondly. “I knew the moment I looked into your big, soulful eyes hiding behind that shock of dirty, chocolate-colored hair that you were a smart kid. An intelligent little runt who was born at the wrong time to the wrong woman in the wrong town. God screws with the design sometimes.”
I bristle at his mention of God. Often, in his old age, Crenshaw goes off on tangents like his long-time friend and church pastor, Jacob Milton. God may have created me, but he made a joke of me.
I let my gaze roam around the ornate sitting room in the massive twenty-seven-thousand-square-foot Windy Hills Estate.
Looks like the joke is on God.
I make my own way.
“Men like us have to be hard when life calls for it,” Crenshaw continues, urging my attention his way. It’s comical how similar he and Catrina are. Always craving the spotlight. “And we have to be soft when life whispers for it. Do you know how to be soft, runt?”
Middle of the night skinny dipping in the lake.
Affections murmured on creamy white skin under a pink, silk sheet.
Small kisses on a perfect thigh. Freckled. Quivering. Mine.
“Perhaps,” I say.
He chuckles. “Don’t go too soft.”
“Never.”
I fiddle with the handkerchief inside my pocket on my expensive suit jacket. Nothing but the best for Crenshaw’s crew. I belong to that crew. The greatest tutors growing up. Fancy trips to Europe. Finest cars. Custom-made suits. Crenshaw demands the best for those around him.
Except his eldest son.
I wonder how good ol’ Hunter is doing these days anyway. The fucker hasn’t written or called. He’s just a ghost. Cold and forgotten.
My mind drifts to the note I’d found sitting on my bed earlier before Crenshaw called for me to chat.
Come find me…
Images of Catrina taunting me with a curved finger and a wicked grin have me feeling anything but soft. It’s amusing that she loves games more so than her father. Amusing and adorable. I play with her. I always have.
I love a good game of cat and mouse. It’s one we play often.
“I’m the cat, naturally,” she always says. “And you’re the field mouse. Dirty and wild.”
And then I always reply back with, “You’re the kitten and I’m the monster under your bed.”
Her emerald eyes always flash with a challenge.
“The monster can’t find me if I’m not in my bed…” she then says.
And my response never changes. “I will always find you.”
“Sir,” I say as I stand, realizing the time. “I’m going to retire for the evening. I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes. Final exams.” He regards me proudly. “Soon you’ll be a college graduate and when you turn twenty-three in the fall, you’ll earn yourself a seat working for me. Not as my apprentice, but as a leader of my company.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I tell him, straightening my spine. It’s the truth. I’ve looked up to Crenshaw for as long as I can remember. Studying Finance, upon his guidance and on his dime. I would’ve graduated sooner, but I intern with him full-time. I can’t keep up a full load of classes while learning from him, so I do what I can. It’s taking longer than I’ve wished, but it’s for the best because I’m getting hands-on experience. I’ve taken each necessary step to one day be just as successful as him. A regular rags-to-riches tale. And in this story, the big bad wolf gets the princess in the end.
“Carry on then, runt.”
I give him a nod and then prowl through the dark hallways of the Windy Hills mansion. When Catrina and I were kids, we’d play hide and seek often. Hunter hated when we’d run through the house shouting and laughing. Bitter cunt. I’m stalking toward my room and nearly knock over the person coming out.
“My goodness, Heath! Watch where you’re going!” The housemaid, Helen, huffs and picks up the soiled rag she dropped.
I smirk at her. “I wasn’t the one running out of my room like my tail was on fire. Were you looking at my porn collection again?”
Her cheeks burn bright and she gapes at me. Helen, not much older than Hunter and me—and taken under Crenshaw’s wing as I was—is so easily scandalized by a few choice words. Always a favorite game for Catrina and me. How far can we push Helen until she either cries, whips us with whatever she has in her hands at the moment, or utters out how we’ve been possessed by the devil?
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she hisses and swats at me with her rag. “Those porn magazines are for derelicts and whores.” She shudders and I boom with laughter.
I flash her a wicked look. “You sure do know a lot about porn mags, naughty woman.”
She shoves me and stomps off. I’ll get a talking to in the morning from Crenshaw because she’ll no doubt tattle to him. It was worth it.
Slipping into my room, I shed my suit jacket and look about the small space. When I was a young boy and scared half out of my wits, I’d been sent to this room by Mrs. Crenshaw. Lillian Crenshaw was a frigid bitch. I know it broke the old man’s heart, but he was better off the day she ran off with a younger man. She only distracted him. The moment she ran off, he poured his focus into his work and built an empire. She did him a favor.
She did me a favor as well.
By hissing hateful words and shoving me into an old sewing room—reminding me I wasn’t good enough for a regular room—I’d learned at an early age that not everyone is good and eager to help poverty-stricken children in an alleyway. Some folks are spoiled as shit and don’t want their pristine life tainted by the likes of a dirty little “runt.” Lillian kindled a fire inside of me. To show her and those who were likeminded, that I could be better than them. That one day I would be.
I’ve been clawing my way to the top ever since.
Her son knows more than anyone how it feels to be on the bottom of motherfucking Heath’s shoe.
Italian leather, of course, because his daddy demands the best.
“Heath…”
My name is called out sweetly from somewhere nearby. Just down the hallway outside my room. I quickly tug off my tie and pull it from my neck. She calls for me again and I all but rip my dress shirt off me. I kick off my shoes and crack my neck.
I’m coming, Catrina.
I leave my undershirt and slacks on as I slip out of the room on a hunt for her. In just my socks, I creep down the hallways quiet as the mouse she claims I am. Floorboards creak nearby and I pause mid-step. Listening. Inhaling the air. I catch a whiff of her lingering scent. Some sweet-smelling lotion I love to lick straight from her skin. My mouth salivates for a taste. Salty and sweet. Mine.
“Achoo!” A sniffle and then, “Shit!”
I rush into the room across from hers. It used to be Hunter’s room, but has since been turned into Catrina’s sitting room. She likes the view of the property in this room better than hers. She had several bookshelves installed along the walls, a couple comfy reading chairs brought in, and a desk to write at put in along the long window.
“I know you’re in here, my love,” I say lowly from the doorway.
Now she’s quiet as a mouse. But I can practically feel her breathing. I can practically taste her arousal.
“When I find you, I’m going to suck on your throat until you scream,” I taunt.
“You can’t do that. Then Daddy will know.” The closet. I step over that way.
“He already knows,” I counter.
“You told him?”
“I don’t have to. Crenshaw’s smart.”
The hangers in the closet clatter together. I twist my fingers around the knob and wrench the door open. It’s pitch-black in the long walk-in closet. Shuffling can be heard as she retreats deeper inside. I close the door behind me.
“Why do you always hide from me?” I ask as I run my palm along the empty hangers, letting them clack together. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“No,” she grumbles, a little defensively I might add.
Irritation blooms inside of me. One day I’ll prove my worth to her. I’m so close I can taste it. To all the outsiders, I’m an orphan who somehow caught the eye of a rich businessman. Unworthy. A thorn in the side of a perfect family. I don’t belong. I’ve been told that before at church. Sanctimonious bastards. And in town, I see it in their eyes. I don’t belong in their world.
Soon, though, this fucking world will be mine.
“We’re in the dark, sweet Catrina. You can let your dirty little secret defile you and nobody will ever know,” I growl.
She squeaks and I pounce. My palms find the silky material of her nightgown as I tackle her, and together, we fall to the carpeted closet floor, landing on a pile of old, unused pillows. She claws at my shirt, not because she wants to get away, but because she wants it off.
Little Crenshaw likes to get caught.
I nip at her jaw and her breath hitches. My cock is hard and I grind it against her thigh, reminding her just how good we are together. She moans, her fingers sliding to my gelled hair and rumpling it. Her grip tightens on my locks as she draws me to her lips.
I can’t see her in the darkness, but I don’t need to.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s the most beautiful thing I can’t see.
Hot breath tickles my lips, but I don’t indulge her with a kiss. Not yet. I want to punish her a little for her earlier hesitation. One day, I’ll be worthy and I’ll put a ring on her finger. Then, I’ll fill her over and over again with my children. If God had a plan, it didn’t include us. Nothing this fiery—this intense—could come from the heavens. The flames that continually burn through us are straight from the bowels of hell.
A devil and his queen.
To rule. Together. Soon.
“Who do you love?” I ask, my lips delicately brushing over hers.
“A madman,” she teases.
I suck on her bottom lip and then bite until she cries out. “Is he good-looking?”
“Hot. So hot,” she breathes. “He kisses really well.”
“Better than me?” I nudge her nose with mine.
“Hmm,” she purrs. “Maybe you should kiss me and I’ll let you know.”
“Kiss you where?” I press my mouth to hers. “Here?”
“Everywhere.”
I trail hot kisses from her mouth to her jaw to her throat. With eager hands, I rip at her gown, pulling the top down and exposing her bare breasts to me. “Here?”
“Y-Yes, there.”
I nip at her breast and then suck the flesh between my teeth. She cries out and wraps her legs around my body. Her heels dig into my back as her fingers claw desperately at my hair.
“Tell me who you love,” I murmur against her peaked nipple. “Tell me.”
She moans. “You, Heath. I love you.”
I suck her nipple hard and then pop off it with a loud sound. The material slides back over her breasts. I kiss down the front of her gown toward her cunt as I shove the material up her stomach. When I kiss her near her belly button, her breath hitches. Her panties are lacy and barely anything to speak of. I take joy in ripping them in two and tossing them somewhere in the closet for Helen to find. Catrina mutters my name when I wrench her thighs apart. I don’t have to see her pretty pussy to know it’s trimmed short, pink, and dripping with arousal. We’ve been intimate for years now. In secret, but the love between us grows more intense with each passing moment. Sometimes I wonder how it will be when we’re old and gray. Will we combust entirely? What a beautiful fucking burn that would be.
I kiss her mound and then run my tongue up her slit. She jolts beneath me and her hips lift, seeking out the pleasures only I can offer. Sucking on her clit, I revel in the scream that will be muffled by the closet. Her taste is sweet and fucking perfect. I suck on her soft lips. Bite on her tender flesh. Inhale her scent that belongs only to me. I steal her moans and groans and curses. My fingers seek her entrance and find the places within her that also beg for attention. I play my girl like an instrument. A loud one that squawks and is out of tune, but plays beautiful music to me, nonetheless.
“Heath!” She says my name like a curse. Like when she stubs her toe or burns her fingers on her curling iron. I like that I’m the dirty and the wrong in her life. Her favorite naughty word.
I suck her clit into my mouth once more as I finger her G-spot within, loving the way she shudders with a loud, body-quaking orgasm. I don’t give her time to recover. As she continues to shudder, I yank at my zipper and work my aching cock from my slacks. I give her wet cunt a slap that makes her cry out and then I push inside her. No warning. Just stab her with my need. Desperate. Hungry. Fucking now.
“Heath!” Again, I’m being chastised for being bad with good loving.
I growl and tangle my fingers in her hair. Our lips fuse together and I kiss my life. I kiss my heart. I kiss my goddamned soul. We are one, she and I. Her nails scrape down my arms and her cunt clenches around my thickness. I fuck her hard and unrelenting. I fuck her like the madman she claims me to be. I fuck her until I’m dangerously close to coming.
Slowing, I tease her mouth with mine. “I could come inside you.”
She flinches. “Don’t be a prick.”
I lift up and grab her wrists, pinning her to the pillows beneath her. “I could do it and you’d be at my mercy.”
“Is that really in your plan?” she tosses back at me, not fighting my hold on her.
Annoyed that she called my bluff, I slam into her hard enough to make her scream again. I fuck, fuck, fuck her until my nuts seize up. With a groan, I pull out seconds before shooting my load inside her and instead come all over her perfect stomach that will one day swell with my child.
Just not yet.
I may be a madman.
But even madmen have a plan.
And plans, especially those designed by madmen, must be carefully executed.
“I love you too,” I say and kiss my life, my heart, my soul’s mouth.
The plan has almost come to fruition.
Soon, sweet Catrina. Soon.