I don’t know, having never been around cats, but I nod as if I can relate.
After all, I’m about to become a pet owner myself.
“All done,” Emma says, approaching the car. In her hands is a clear plastic bag with a few cans of cat food and toys. “We can go.”
“Good. Let’s go then.” And with one last look at Wilson, who’s beaming at us with uncharacteristic warmth, I usher Emma into the car.
20
Emma
I have no idea what I’m doing. None. By all rights, I should be home, settling back into my regular life and recovering from my intense Thanksgiving weekend with Marcus. Instead, I let him convince me to spend the night at his ridiculously fancy penthouse, and now I’m freaking out because I’m about to let my cats out of their carriers.
My cats, who haven’t been anywhere other than my apartment and the vet’s office in years.
What on earth was I thinking?
This is going to be a disaster.
“They can’t get into the pool, right?” I confirm for the second time, eyeing the thick glass wall behind the tall plants shielding the forty-foot-long rectangular pool from the rest of the apartment. “Because I don’t think they can swim and—”
“Geoffrey made sure the pool enclosure door is locked,” Marcus says, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he comes to stand in front of me. “I called him when we were on the way, remember?”
“Right, of course.” I take a deep breath. “What about pricey breakable things? Because they will knock stuff over, and—”
“So be it. I’ll replace them with less breakable things.”
“But—”
He kisses me. Just like that, with no warning, he slides one big hand into my hair, tilts my face up, and dips his head to slant his mouth across mine.
His lips are soft and warm, his breath faintly minty from the hard candy we both sucked on during our descent into JFK. The kiss is sweet and leisurely at first, pleasantly unhurried. Laying a gentle hand on my lower back, he strokes his tongue over the seam of my lips, teasing and caressing until my arms wrap around his neck and my lips part on a breathless exhale to let him in. Immediately, he deepens the kiss, his hand moving down to my bottom, kneading it through my jeans as he presses me against his powerful body. Shortly before landing, we had a quickie on the plane—because bedroom—but he’s already as hard as if that interlude never happened. The thick bulge of his erection presses into my belly, igniting a familiar burn under my skin, and I find myself rising on tiptoes, the lazy sweetness fading as my tongue tangles with his and my body tightens on a surge of need.
I want him. Badly. I want his muscular ass flexing as he drives into me, his hands gripping my wrists and his eyes filled with that dark, intense—
A loud meow cuts through the sex fog in my brain, and I freeze in place, realizing we’re again making out where someone—in this case, Marcus’s butler—can walk in on us at any moment. Panting, I push Marcus away, and he lets me, though his chest is rising and falling in the same rapid rhythm as mine, and his lightly bronzed face is darkened with a flush of arousal.
“The cats. I have to…” I gulp in a breath and force myself to take a step back, away from temptation. “Have to let them out.”
His gaze tracks me with predatory intensity, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he’s fighting the urge to grab me. “Of course. Go ahead.” His voice is hoarse as I prudently take another step back. “Geoffrey’s got their litter boxes all set up and ready.”
Right. Litter boxes. That’s not sexy at all. So why am I still thinking about how his lips felt on mine, and how hard and thick—
Stop it, Emma. Cats, litter boxes. Think of your fur babies and focus.
With effort, I wrench my gaze away from the blazing heat in Marcus’s eyes and kneel in front of the two carriers. Inside the bigger one, Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball are sitting together calmly, regarding me with mildly curious expressions. Mr. Puffs, however, is all worked up inside his smaller bag, alternately meowing and hissing, his pretty fur all ruffled from rubbing against the mesh sides.
He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t like it—which doesn’t bode well for Marcus’s ritzy place.
“Please, behave,” I implore the cat as I unzip the carrier to let him out. “Pretty please.”
He jumps out with a hissing yowl before I get the zipper halfway open. As soon as his paws touch the smooth hardwood floor, he leaps five feet into the air and lands with his back arched and his fur standing on end. Then, hissing, he darts underneath Marcus’s ultra-modern gray leather couch.
I eye the smooth leather mournfully. Once Mr. Puffs gets his bearings, that couch is toast.
Sighing, I turn my attention to his siblings. Their plastic carrier opens in the front, and as soon as I unlock the door, Cottonball pushes it open with a paw and strolls out, his whiskers twitching with curiosity as he surveys his surroundings. Queen Elizabeth, however, stays in the carrier, feeling insecure in an unfamiliar place.
“See? So far, so good,” Marcus says, crouching next to me. Cottonball stares at him, then decides to mark his territory by rubbing his furry body against Marcus’s leg.
To my surprise, Marcus cautiously reaches out and scratches Cottonball behind his ear. “This is okay, right?” he asks me, and I nod, my insides melting at the awed expression on his hard features as my friendliest cat starts an audible purr at his touch.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe this won’t be a total disaster.
Reaching into the carrier, I get Queen Elizabeth out and cuddle her against my chest, stroking her soft fur to reassure her. Marcus looks at me,
