Emma smiles ruefully. “I would if I could. My cats don’t allow it. And now also you, I guess.”
“I’m glad your cats and I are on the same page.”
She laughs at my dry response, and I spend the rest of the ride on the other side of the car. Thankfully, the traffic is light at this hour, and it doesn’t take long to get home. Midway, I have to roll up the window to avoid freezing us both to death, and my nose is itching again by the time we roll up to my building.
“I’m going straight into the shower,” Emma says when I sneeze again while helping her out of the car. “Literally, the second we walk through the door. And I won’t wear these clothes again until they’ve been washed.”
“Good idea. I’ll ask Geoffrey to get your coat dry-cleaned too.” I have no idea if the perfume got on it as well, but I’m not about to risk it. Come to think of it, my clothes need to be decontaminated also, since Emma’s flowery-smelling hair was all over my shoulder.
I owe Emma’s cats for teaching her not to use this stuff, I really do.
* * *
All three of the fluffy beasts are waiting by the door when we walk in, and I see what Emma meant by “my cats go crazy.” As soon as we get inside, all three noses go up, sniffing the air, and furry backs start to curve. Cottonball hisses—actually hisses—at us before zooming away, and Mr. Puffs joins him with a furious yowl. Queen Elizabeth is the sole outlier; she stays, though her eyes are wild and her back is in a full arch as she stares at us, as if unsure whether to attack or run for her life.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Emma tells her, taking off her coat and hanging it in the closet. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”
True to her word, she beelines for the master bedroom shower, and I text Geoffrey the instruction on what to do with our coats when he comes in tomorrow morning—and, since Emma put her contaminated outerwear there before I could warn her, with all the contents of the downstairs closet as well.
By the time I get upstairs, I’m naked, having left all my clothes in the laundry downstairs, just in case.
“It’s almost safe, boys,” I tell Cottonball and Mr. Puffs as I walk by the library, where both cats have taken refuge on the bookshelves. “The noxious odor is about to be contained.”
The cats look distrustful, and I can’t blame them. That perfume really is an assault on one’s senses.
Entering the bedroom, I find Emma’s dress in the laundry bin in my closet, and I take the entire bin downstairs—again, just to be on the safe side. Then I return and open the window to air out the bedroom.
Queen Elizabeth creeps in behind me, nose in the air, and I let her be the canary in the coal mine. After a few long moments, she sits down and starts daintily licking her paw.
Success. Perfume invasion contained.
“All right, now off you go,” I tell the cat as I head to the bathroom, where the shower is running. “I have big plans for tonight.”
Queen Elizabeth continues cleaning herself.
I stop and glare at her. “Seriously, shoo.” Last night, we had the bedroom to ourselves, and I intend for that to continue. Unlike Emma’s place, my penthouse is large enough for every cat to have his or her own room, which means there’s zero reason for the beasties to be present when we’re having sex.
I’m totally anthropomorphizing here, but fucking Emma in front of her pets felt oddly like doing it in front of young children.
The cat gives me a disdainful glare, then stands up and saunters away, looking as regal as the monarch whose name she shares. When she’s over the threshold, I close the bedroom door and lock it for good measure, my heartbeat speeding up as my body tightens with anticipation.
I really do have big plans tonight, and I want zero interference.
32
Emma
I’m almost done rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when Marcus steps into the enormous shower stall with me, a small bottle in his hand and his erection already at full mast.
Blinking the water out of my eyes, I stare at that impressive column of male flesh, then drag my gaze up to Marcus’s face. His eyes are fiercely narrowed, his jaw taut with unmistakable hunger.
I gulp, my heartbeat spiking as I back up a step, moving out of the water spray coming at me from the five rotating showerheads. I’m still a little sore from that intense sex last evening, and I don’t know if I’m up for anything kinky—especially in light of the questions raised by Ashton’s blunder at dinner.
Taking another step back, I sneak a glance at the bottle. “Is that lube?”
“Yes.” Marcus’s voice is low and rough, his intent unmistakable as he sets the bottle down on the ledge where all shampoos live and comes after me. Gripping my hips, he pulls me against his aroused body and bends his head to kiss me.
“Wait.” Ignoring the heat curling in my core, I wedge my hands between our bodies and turn my head away, causing his lips to land on my ear. “I need to talk to you first.”
His chest muscles turn to stone under my palms. “What is it?”
With a push, I twist out of his hold and back up a step. “Emmeline.” I suck in a steadying breath. “Are you—or were you—seeing her?”
He looks neither surprised nor offended by the question. “No.” His tone is even, his gaze unflinching. “It’s as I’ve told you: we only met that one time. We did speak on the phone a couple of times after that, before I decided to seriously pursue you, but that’s all it ever was.”
“Then why—”
“Why did Ashton
