by Zaires, Anna
Wait a minute. Why am I thinking about my lack of abs when he broke down my door?
“I tripped, okay? I tripped.” I still sound winded, but I’m not sure how much of that is from the fall versus the way he’s staring at me—with a worry that’s gradually transforming into something else.
Something hotter and infinitely more dangerous.
“So you’re not hurt?” he clarifies in a huskier tone, and I shake my head, my face burning as the heat in his eyes intensifies. And it’s not just my face—my whole body feels like it’s on fire as he takes a step toward me, his powerful hands flexing at his sides.
It doesn’t seem like my lack of abs is a turn-off for him—at least judging by the dark hunger in that stare.
“The door…” My voice comes out thin and high. “You… um, broke down the door.”
“The door?” He doesn’t seem to know what I’m talking about as he takes another step toward me, his gaze falling to my bra—which is pushing up my heaving breasts, as if offering them up like a sacrifice.
I swallow as he reaches for me, one big hand curving tenderly around my jaw while the other lands on my naked shoulder, squeezing lightly. His touch burns through me, spiking my pulse and sending a heated shiver down my spine. Looming over me, he’s so tall I have to crane my neck to hold his gaze, and it dawns on me that I’ve never felt so small and vulnerable before… or so wanted.
“Emma.” His voice is low and thick as his fingers slide into my hair, sensuously cupping my skull. “Kitten, may I kiss you?” He’s bending his head as he speaks, and the last word is murmured against my lips, his warm, faintly sweet breath mixing with my own shallow exhalations.
I never get a chance to respond because my hands reach up to clasp his broad shoulders, and my eyes close as my lips press against his—seemingly of their own accord. There’s no logic in my decision, no reason whatsoever. We’re utterly wrong for each other, and I’m bound to get hurt if we proceed, but for the first time in my life, I don’t care about the risk I’m taking.
There’s no room for fear in the blazing need consuming me.
He deepens the kiss, arching me back over his arm, and my breasts mold against the hard plane of his chest as my head falls back, supported only by the cradle of his palm. His lips are warm and soft, his tongue exploring my mouth with sensuous skill, and a small moan escapes my throat as his lips leave mine and trail over my jaw to nibble on my earlobe—where the heat of his breath sends goosebumps rippling down my arm. I can smell the clean, woodsy scent of his skin, like pine mixed with fresh autumn breeze, and my body tightens, tension spiraling through my core. I’m so turned on I’m on the verge of orgasm, and my hands tug at the lapels of his coat, desperate to get it off so I can—
A hissing meow startles me, jolting me out of my sensual haze. Eyes snapping open, I push at Marcus’s chest, and he lets me go, though his gaze is heavy-lidded and his normally even-toned skin is edged with a flush of arousal.
Panting, we stare at each other as Mr. Puffs winds around my legs, alternately hissing at Marcus and meowing up at me.
“Your cat,” Marcus says hoarsely. “He’s not going to run away?”
I stare at him blankly, then recall the broken door. My cats are not in the habit of trying to run away, but then again, they’ve never had the temptation of a doorless entrance. “He shouldn’t,” I say, but just to be on the safe side, I bend down and pick up Mr. Puffs, cradling him against my chest.
The evil beast starts purring, and I stroke him, grateful for the shield his large, furry body provides. I still don’t have my clothes on, and with the icy November air blowing in through the open doorway, it’s quickly getting cold in the apartment.
Plus, there’s that whole being semi-naked in front of Marcus bit.
“So,” I say awkwardly, inching toward my closet with Mr. Puffs in my arms. “About the door—”
“I’ll get it fixed, don’t worry.” His gaze tracks me with undisguised hunger as I make my way back to the closet, then put Mr. Puffs down so I can dress. “It looked like it was on its last legs, anyway.”
“Can you turn around, please?” I blurt out, holding my jeans in front of me when he shows no sign of looking away. I know it’s silly—he’s already seen most of me—but I don’t want him to watch my butt jiggle as I perform the maneuvers required to pull on my tight jeans.
There’s way too much butt jiggle for my liking.
He opens his mouth to say something, then apparently thinks better of it and turns around. “Go ahead,” he says thickly. “I won’t look.”
I quickly wriggle into the jeans, then throw on my second-nicest blouse—my nicest being the one I wore out yesterday. I finish off the outfit with my sweater wrap and newish boots, and when I glance at the hallway mirror, I realize that my outfit is identical to yesterday’s, the only difference being the blouse. Even worse, with all of my recent exertions, my mascara has smeared, leaving a raccoon-like smudge under my left eye, and my hair looks like I’ve been wrestling with a wildcat—which, given Mr. Puffs’s size, is not far from the truth.
So much for impressing a billionaire.
I’m muttering curses under my breath and trying to rub off the mascara smudge when Marcus asks, “Can I turn around now?”
Crap. I smooth my hands over my hair, sneak another look in the mirror, and say glumly, “Go ahead.”
I’d need an hour to fix the mess I see in the mirror, not a few minutes—not that it matters either way. Now that I’m not so frazzled and my brain is not clouded by lust, an obvious fact occurs to me.
With the door broken, I can’t leave my apartment and the cats.
Tonight’s date is not happening.
20
Marcus
My erection is still threatening to rip a hole in my pants as I turn around and look at Emma—who, to my great disappointment, is now fully dressed. It almost doesn’t matter, though. The sight of her clad in nothing but lacy underwear is permanently etched into my brain—and will star in every wet dream and fantasy of mine going forward.
“Sexy” doesn’t even begin to describe her curvy little body. Every soft, feminine inch of her seems to be designed with my newly discovered preferences in mind. Her creamy skin is dotted in a few places with an appealing smattering of freckles, and her ass is the best I’ve ever seen: full and heart-shaped, infinitely squeezable. Or at least I imagine it is—I somehow managed to keep my hands off it as I devoured her mouth.
And then, of course, there are those luscious breasts of hers, the sensual dip in her navel, and her small, perfectly shaped feet with red-painted toenails.
Fuck, even her little toes turn me on.
“So, about the door,” she starts again when I remain silent, eyeing her hungrily. “Should I call a repairman or…?” She lets the question trail off.
“I’ll do it,” I say huskily, and forcing myself to look away from the temptation of her, I pull out my phone.
My butler, Geoffrey, picks up on the first ring, and I inform him of the situation. “I need someone over here within the hour,” I tell him, and he promises that it will be done.
I hang up and see Emma staring at me with her mouth open, the big cat back in her arms.
“Someone is going to come on a Friday night?” she asks incredulously. “As in, right away?”
“Of course. You can’t not have a door overnight.”
It makes perfect sense to me, but she’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a horn on my forehead—and so is her cat. “On a Friday night,” she mutters, stroking the fluffy creature. “Yeah, okay, sure.”
“We’ll stay here until they’re done,” I say, shrugging out of my coat. Even with the cold draft coming in, it’s still too hot inside the apartment for me to wear it. Draping it over the back of the only chair I see, I tell her, “It’ll take them a little while to fix it, so we should probably go ahead and eat. Any preferences for delivery or takeout around here?”
She blinks. “You�
� want to have dinner here?”
“Of course.” I frown. “Unless you’re not hungry?”
“Oh, no, I’m hungry,” she assures me, propping the cat higher on her chest. “I just figured that given what happened, we would, you know, reschedule or whatever.”
Oh, no. There’s no way I’m leaving her alone in a Brooklyn apartment with a broken door leading to the street. Granted, this is not what I envisioned for our second date, but I don’t mind this development one bit—though she did almost give me a heart attack with all the falling sounds and the screaming.
I thought she’d gotten seriously hurt, and the chilling fear I’d experienced had been entirely out of proportion to the length of our acquaintance.
I don’t want to analyze why that is, or why I don’t have any desire to escape her cramped basement studio. It reminds me of the apartment my mother and I had lived in when I was in middle school, and I hated that place, so by all logic, I should hate this too. But I get an entirely different vibe here. Even though the only window in Emma’s studio is the same tiny slit near the ceiling that we’d had, and the paint on her walls is also peeling in places, the stink of alcohol and desperation is missing.
Her apartment is rundown and tiny, but it’s cozy. A home, not just a place to crash.
Of course, if there were no cats, it would be even better. I can see two more white furry creatures poking their heads from under the bed, their big green eyes staring at me. Judging by all the meowing I’d heard when Emma fell, I have a strong suspicion they—or the huge one in her arms—were somehow responsible.
“We’re not rescheduling,” I tell Emma firmly. “I’m here, and you’re here, and that”—I point at her tiny desk—“will work as a table. All we need is food, and if you tell me what you want, I can have it delivered or ask my driver to bring it to us.”
Before she can respond, the big cat meows, fluffy tail swishing from side to side as he gives me a threatening look from his perch on Emma’s chest. I glare back at him. I know he did that hissing-meowing thing while we were making out on purpose, to cockblock me.
If not for that, Emma and I might’ve made it all the way to her narrow bed, and I would now be balls deep inside her sweet, lush body.
“Sorry,” she says, stroking the creature to calm him down. “He’s just…”
“Possessive, I know.” I would be too, if she petted me like that. In fact, just watching her small hand move over the cat’s white fur is making me jealous.
I want her to touch me like that, to run her soft hands all over my body.
“So, yeah, about the food,” Emma says when the cat starts purring. “I’m really flexible. There’s a deli on the corner that makes great sandwiches, and there’s also a gyros place I like a couple of blocks over. Neither one delivers, but—”
“Wilson will bring it; that’s not a problem. So sandwiches or gyros?”
She hesitates, then says, “Let’s do gyros. The place is called Gyro World.”
Okay, good. We’re having a meal together.
Concealing my satisfaction, I take out my phone and text Wilson the instructions. He immediately replies that he’s on his way, and I put my phone away—only to see Emma regarding me with a strange expression.
“What?” I frown at her. “Did I do something wrong?”
She shakes her head, then blurts out, “Is it always so easy for you? Do you always just snap your fingers and things happen?”
“You mean, can I always get gyros delivered? Yes, usually. Is that a bad thing?”
She puts the cat down. “No, of course not. It’s just… not what I’m used to, that’s all.”
She walks over to sit down on the bed, and the two cats come out from underneath to drape themselves over her lap. The big one that she just put down eyes me evilly for a moment, as if debating if I’d make a good meal, then stalks over to join the others on the bed, puffy tail held high.
I decide to ignore his disdain. It’s a cat, after all.
Taking a seat on the chair on which I hung my coat, I study Emma, trying to understand what it is about her that I find so appealing. Her looks, for sure—I can’t wait to sink my cock deep into her scrumptious little body—but her appearance is only part of the draw.
There’s also something warm and tender about her, something that tugs at me in a way I don’t fully understand.
“What are they called?” I ask, figuring that since the cats are such a big part of her life, I can at least try to get to know them. “You said that one is Mr. Puffs, right?” I nod at the bad-tempered giant, who’s staked out a spot on her left leg by shoving away his much smaller competitor.
She smiles, her eyes lighting up and her dimples coming out in full force. “Yes, that’s right. This one”—she looks down at her right leg, where a mid-sized cat is purring up a storm—“is Cottonball. And that”—she nods at the shoved-aside cat, the smallest of the bunch, who’s now daintily licking its paw—“is Queen Elizabeth.”
“How did you get them?” I ask. “And why three? Your apartment is… not very big.” There’s barely enough space for one small woman as far as I’m concerned.
She grimaces. “I know. I hate it that they’re cooped up in this studio. They’re used to it, having grown up here, but still, it’s not good. I hope to afford a bigger apartment one day, but for now, all I can do is entertain them the best I can.” She glances over her shoulder at the wall on the other side of her bed, and I realize that what I thought was a strange empty bookshelf is actually a cat maze that goes from floor to ceiling—an insane luxury in a place as space-constrained as this one.
She is committed to her pets.
“So you’ve had them from the time they were little?” I ask, and she nods, her expression darkening for some reason.
“They were barely two weeks old when I found them.”
“Found them?”
“They came into my life by accident; I didn’t plan on any pets when I got this place,” she says. “My friend Janie and I were driving to Woodbury Common—you know, the big shopping mall upstate—and we stopped by a gas station on the way. I went around the back to use the restroom, and I heard these faint mewling sounds coming from the garbage can. When I looked inside, there was a box of kittens there—so tiny they barely had their eyes open.” Her delicate jaw tightens, and a fierce look comes over her pretty face. “Some asshole threw them out, like they were trash.”
Asshole, indeed. I don’t consider myself an animal lover, but my hands itch with the urge to beat whoever did this shitty thing to a bloody pulp. “So you took them in?” I ask, doing my best to keep the anger out of my voice, and she nods again.
“Of course. What else could I do? Janie is allergic, and nobody at the gas station would claim them. I thought about bringing them to a shelter—the vet I took them to said they’re purebred Persians and would be adopted quickly—but they were beginning to cling to me by then, and I didn’t want to cause them any more trauma. As it was, because they weren’t properly weaned from their mother, they kept trying to suckle everything in sight for the first two years of their lives. It’s only recently that they’ve calmed down.” She gazes down at them with a tender smile, all fierceness gone as she scratches one furry creature behind the ear, then pets the other two.
All three set up a loud purr, and I again battle a surge of jealousy that she’s touching them, not me.
Fuck.
I may need to consult a shrink. This can’t be healthy.
I’m about to ask her another question when I hear a knocking on the doorframe, and a spicy, savory aroma fills the apartment.
It’s Wilson with our food.
I walk over to take the bags from him, and as I’m thanking him, Emma approaches.
“Here you go,” she says brightly, stuffing what looks like a twenty into Wilson’s hand. “That should cover my portion.”
And ignoring the stunned look on my driver’s face, she returns to join her cats on the bed.
> 21
Emma
Marcus is looking at me like he’s never seen a woman devour a gyro before—and maybe he hasn’t. I bet all the supermodel types he dates survive on kale juice and broccoli. Then again, he’s been eyeing me like this ever since I paid for my portion, so maybe it has something to do with that.
His driver certainly looked shocked when I gave him the twenty.
Of course, it’s also possible that he’s not used to seeing a woman eating on her bed, surrounded by cats who have no compunction about stealing pieces of meat straight out of her gyro. I try to shove them away from my plate, but it’s useless.
There are three of them, and the gyro has too many points of access.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit here?” he asks again from his seat at my desk, and I shake my head, my mouth too full to respond verbally. The desk is where I always eat, and other than the kitchen counter, it’s the only table-like surface in my apartment. If I sat there, in the only chair I own, he’d have to stand or eat on my bed, and in the latter case, the cats would attack his food—not a good situation.
I already feel bad I’m subjecting him to the cramped mess that is my apartment.
“They’d be all over you,” I explain after I swallow. “They really like gyros.”
“Who wouldn’t? These are great,” he says and takes another big bite of the juicy pita in his hand.
I brighten a little. “Aren’t they?” I was worried he’d feel this kind of food is beneath him—the hole-in-the-wall place we ordered from is just one step above a street cart—but he appears to be genuinely enjoying himself. In general, he seems much more comfortable in my apartment than I figured a billionaire would be—though his big, broad-shouldered frame looks rather ridiculous stuffed into my tiny IKEA chair.
“Yep, good choice,” he says, chowing down on his gyro, and I give him a big smile.
Maybe this date isn’t a total disaster after all.