I bite my lip, thrilled at the way his pleasure overtakes him, how he groans and thrusts, and then he’s there, coming in my hand.
“Fuck,” he mutters. Then he says it again and again. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to keep going at this tempo, but he seems to know I need his guidance, because he places his hand on mine, and slows my pace, even as he pants hard, coming down.
I let go, wash my hands, and return to his side. He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I haven’t had a hand job in ages, and let me tell you, it was worth the wait. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed an orgasm that much in years.”
I beam. It’s crazy to feel pride over a hand job, but I do. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve never enjoyed giving one as much, either, and I loved every second of my first.”
He laughs, drawing me in for another kiss. “I better clean up,” he murmurs, kissing me once more before excusing himself.
When he returns, he slides in next to me. “Sleep with me,” he murmurs, tugging me into the crook of his arm, and my heart skips a beat. Something stirs in my chest, a deeper feeling, a warmth that extends beyond what we did tonight.
“I would love to sleep with you,” I say with a smile, and neither one of us misses the double meaning of the words, or the fact that tonight they mean something softer, more tender.
“You feel good, all nice and warm,” he says in my ear, then presses a soft kiss to my neck.
“So do you.” I settle in next to him, sighing happily as he spoons me. “Is this another lesson? Are we squeezing in lesson four?”
“How to cuddle after a fantastic orgasm,” he murmurs.
“Now that I think I’ll excel at.”
But he shakes his head against my hair. “It’s not a lesson.”
“It’s not?”
He brushes my hair away from my skin, his touch gentle. “Nope. It’s just what I want more than anything right now.”
That feeling in my chest? It intensifies. It multiplies. It soars. It’s almost better than my double Os. I let myself feel it for a few seconds before I return to the task of keeping my head and heart separate.
But separate doesn’t mean resisting a good snuggle. I cuddle against him, savoring the heat from his body, my thoughts drifting into sleepy pastures.
Until my phone howls in my purse.
Literally howls, the full-moon baying of wolves that means there is serious trouble at home. My landlord never calls unless there is a bona fide emergency, the kind that cannot wait until morning.
“Don’t answer that,” Graham murmurs. “I’m about to have a fantastic dream about you falling asleep in my arms.”
“I was going to have the same dream. But I have to grab this call.”
I hit the green button and bring the phone to my ear, where my “Hello?” is met by an endless stream of cursing in Czechoslovakian. But in between all the cursing, I catch a few key words—broken pipes, ruined carpet, structural damage, damned cat, and loose in the building.
With a silent groan of abject misery, I promise to be there as soon as I can, to clean everything up and pay for all damages, and to get my renegade pussycat back in his cage ASAP.
I love that little guy. God, how I love him.
But right now, I wish my brother had owned a pet rock.
Chapter Thirteen
Graham
The entire way to the Meatpacking District in the cab, all I can think about is muzzles. Surely they have cat muzzles, right? Something snappy-looking but secure that CJ can wrap around her cat’s destructive mouth before she leaves the house. I mean, I get that Stephen King is old and blind and easily confused about what is food and what isn’t, but right now, I would have zero issues with muzzling the fluffy bastard.
And I wasn’t even cock-blocked by the stupid cat.
I was . . . snuggle-stonewalled. Cuddle-confounded. Spoon-stymied.
Jesus. What’s wrong with me? I’m pissed at a senile old feline because I didn’t get to curl up and slip into the land of nod with the loveliest woman ever?