~LIKE CARAMEL~

~CADEN'S POV

I HATED THE FUCKING MEDIA! They always had a way of making a big deal out of everything.

When you buy a new Rolls Royce out of nowhere, they call you new money. When your wife smiles with another man, you become a new scene for the REAL HOUSEWIVES.

I had done only one thing wrong; take a picture with a young super model. The next thing was a blast on the papers. I was outed in different shades of black.

Some fucking blogs were calling me a rich pedophile who didn't know how to act his age. For fucks sake! I was only thirty nine...

And it was a goddamn picture!

My friends had done worst. If I had been a worse person, I would have actually done something with the model. Now I had to deal with the fact that my PR Offices won't stop dealing me stupid questions about the 'real' story.

"Sir! I need to know if any other compromising pictures were taken?" My second assistant pushes from beside me.

I walk briskly away without answering her.

"Mr. Hallow?"

I stop then. Abruptly. Turning to her, I spot her big coffee eyes pin me with those level gazes actresses have. She was hot. It was a given, and also ten percent of the reason why I hired her.

The remaining ninety percent was because she didn't give me shit. She was tough, and I fucking loved tough women.

Meeting my gaze squarely, she says,

"Did you fuck her?"

I almost smile. The woman was fucking brave. Most of my friends didn't even have the balls to question my bedroom acts.

"No. Adelaide. I did not fuck her." I reply.

"So you just took a picture with the superhot model?"

I meet her brown eyes and spot her lips twitching.

"Just get it off before my son spots it. I don't want any more shit from him."

Without another word, I turn and stride away.

~. ~. ~.

THE BALMY SCENT of my morning coffee whispers up from the pure glass of my office desk. Behind me, the glassy rise of distinguished business empires block out the sun, fanning out to a stunning luxurious backdrop.

The coffee steam rises up as it grows cold but I don't touch it. Instead, I stare into the glass and glory of my office and just listen to the droning taps of my pen on the desk.

My mind however fires a million images around my skull. Magazine headlines. Multimillion business deals. The new Chopper I wanted to purchase. The Vacation I planned for Summer. I only focus on one thought though.

My son.

Ryan Winston Hallow was the one thing I did right. Ever since I saw his big hazel eyes open to mine in the Emergency room, I never loved anything more. His mother was not so lucky. I never saw her brilliant adventurous smile again.

But my son; he was my joy. Still is. I know I don't tell him a lot but I was the proudest a father could possibly be. Hell! The boy didn't do drugs. He was the fucking example my friends used for their kids when they caught them doing something stupid.

I was trying to be the perfect father also for him, which is why I needed that fucking compromising photo off the media.

I close my eyes, still tapping on my desk's surface as I remember more. Ryan had never been the kid to hug me after school, or call me pops or whatever. I had always called him buddy, and to him, I was always Dad; his strong ever-present hero.

We didn't do touchy-feely but we cared. Ryan was quiet from a very young age, and fucking brilliant too. I never had any fear of handing over the Hallow Empire to him. He was more than capable. But I always knew something was missing.

In our case, someone...

Ryan had serious mommy issues. Infact, he didn't fully leave the wet nurse's breast till he was 20 months old. The moment puberty hit, then came the women. Older women. Always older.

I understood his craving and I didn't bug him. Infact, in a way, I respected his decision. He found a healthy way of dealing with his shit. But from the moment I heard him start tossing and turning in his sleep, I knew something was amiss.

Then something happened to me also.

I started having dreams. The dreams were regular, vivid and hot and hell. They were always the same. A woman.

A stunning brown-skinned woman.

Each time I saw her, I could somehow feel her thoughts and know her wants deep in my heart, like we were synched. I tried to get her out of my mind. Gods! I did.

But it was deeper than just dreams. It was a connection. A presence in my heart. I could feel her, and somehow—even though I didn't want to process it, I knew she wasn't human. Not entirely.

Then I found Ryan's sketches. They matched my drawings to an inch of perfection.

My son had a good hand. We both did, but how could Father and Son have the same dreams at the same time of the same woman? It was fucking tiresome, but it never ceased to give me a raging hard-on. I spent fucking hours jerking to the image of her slippery wet mulatto skin that plagued my mind.

This mystery woman dulled my senses. Which is why I'm here, in my office thinking of how to tell my son that we both needed a psychologist. Fast.

I stop tapping on my desk and pick up my phone. I heard Ryan had a new History Professor. Normally, I could be a narcissist but when it came to Ryan, I was all-in. So I scroll down Stanford's Lecture profile.

As I push across pictures and names of various too-smiling Professors, I feel a familiar stirring in my groin. Only one woman did that to me.

My lusty virtual mistress.

When I hit the name and picture of the new Professor, I immediately know the reason for my blatant arousal.

The image was that of a well-endowed woman. Long story short, the woman from myself and Ryan's dreams.

I slowly go over her profile again. Her name screams up to me like a lighthouse; mysterious, drawing, and dangerous.

DR. CASSELBA CRANE.

Then her eyes. Captivating. Deep. Smoky.

When my erection pushes heavily against my briefs, I immediately slam the phone down on the desk.

I should be in the middle of a business meeting, not ogling my son's new Professor. But she sings to me. The woman was Art in juicy curves of brown skin.

...Like caramel.

I groan but reach over, once again for my phone balanced on the glass. Just one more look. Just one more, I muse.