Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Caleb
I wake up to the unsettling sensation of something warm and heavy pressing down on my chest. My brain is still foggy from sleep, and for a moment, I have no idea where I am. Then I crack open my eyes and find myself face-to-face with Bentley.
The cat is perched on my chest like he’s staking his claim. His copper eyes narrow as he scrutinizes me, probably judging every life choice that led me to this moment. Me too, buddy. Me too.
His tail flicks back and forth, brushing against my face with just enough force to be annoying. I try to shift, but Bentley isn’t having any of it. He digs his claws into my shirt, a not-so-subtle reminder that he’s in charge now.
It feels like I’ve been taken hostage on a battlefield, pinned down by an enemy who’s just waiting for me to make the wrong move. And here I thought the worst of my battles were behind me.
Great. Of all the spots in this massive penthouse, this damn cat decided I’m the perfect place for his morning nap. I never thought I’d be woken up by a cat, much less one that looks at me like I’m an intruder in his kingdom. Should I tell him this isn’t our house and he should behave like a good guest?
“Seriously?” I mutter, glaring at Bentley, who stares back with an expression that practically screams, I dare you to move.
I attempt to sit up, but Bentley just stretches out even more, his claws pricking through the comforter. It’s like he’s saying, Go ahead, make my day.
I’m stuck. Literally pinned down by a furball that weighs more than it looks. Bentley’s eyes are locked onto mine, daring me to try and move him. I’m not sure whether to laugh or scream, but one thing’s for sure—I’m not spending the rest of the morning as this cat’s personal mattress.
I glance around the room, searching for an escape route. My options are limited—very limited—unless I want to risk Bentley turning my chest into a pincushion. Then I spot Emmersyn, still asleep on the couch across the room. She’s got to be my answer. The only way out of this feline hostage situation is her.
“Emmersyn,” I hiss, careful not to make any sudden moves that might encourage Bentley to dig his claws in deeper. “Emmersyn. A little help here?”
She stirs, blinking sleepily as she tries to make sense of the situation. “What’s wrong?” she mumbles, her voice heavy with sleep. Then she notices Bentley sprawled across my chest and smirks. “Oh, I see. Looks like Bentley’s made himself at home.”
“Yeah, well, I’d like to make it off this bed in one piece,” I reply, trying to keep my voice low and even. The last thing I need is this cat deciding I’m some kind of scratching post. “Can you get him off me?”
Emmersyn sits up, stretching like she’s just had the best sleep of her life, then gives me a look that’s way too smug for this time of day. “I could . . . but remember the two-foot rule? If I help you, you lose something from the inheritance. You sure you want to risk it?”
I stare at her, incredulous. “You’re seriously bringing up that ridiculous rule right now? I’m under attack here! You should make an exception. Find it in your heart to?—”
She raises an eyebrow, cutting me off. “The last time I checked, you thought I was . . . What was it?” She pauses, clearly enjoying the moment. As she shifts to stand, the blanket slips down, revealing her skimpy pajama top clinging to her curves like a second skin. My eyes immediately zero in on her perky tits, barely contained by the thin fabric.
For a split second, I forget all about the damn cat. My mind drifts to what I’d do if I weren’t pinned down—how I’d reach out and pull her closer, let my hands roam over the soft skin just peeking out from the edge of her top. My mouth practically waters at the thought of tasting her, teasing those perfect breasts until she’s gasping for breath.
Bentley’s low growl, a sound that’s half warning and half irritation, snaps me back to the present. Right, I’m supposed to be fighting for my life, not fantasizing about Emmersyn’s tempting body.
“Oh right,” she says with a wicked grin, clearly noticing where my gaze has landed. “I’m heartless.”
Bentley, as if on cue, lets out another purr that sounds suspiciously like agreement.
“Please, Emmersyn,” I plead, trying to muster every ounce of charm I have left. I shift slightly, wincing as Bentley’s claws dig a little deeper into my chest.
She shrugs, clearly relishing my discomfort. “Rules are rules, Caleb. Besides, Bentley’s harmless. Well, mostly.”
“Mostly?” I repeat, my eyes widening as Bentley starts kneading my chest with his paws, his claws grazing the fabric of the comforter. I make a mental note to start wearing a shirt or maybe armor to bed around this fur-covered menace. “Em, come on. I’m begging you here. Be a friend. Be a pal.”
Emmersyn tilts her head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm, let’s see . . . I help you, and you lose, what? A piece of my precious inheritance? Or . . . I could just let Bentley have his way with you. Might be good practice for dealing with tough negotiations.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I grumble, wincing as Bentley’s claws dig in a little deeper.
“Maybe,” she says with a grin. “But think of it this way— you get to bond with Bentley. Isn’t that what you wanted when you demanded to keep him?”
“I wanted a car, not a cat,” I nearly shout, but I catch myself, not wanting to startle Bentley into full attack mode. “Fine. What do you want, Emmersyn? Name your price.”
She pretends to think, then leans back with a satisfied smirk. “How about this—you admit that this whole two-foot rule was a brilliant idea, and I’ll save you from Bentley.”
“Brilliantly evil,” I mutter. She glares at me then looks at her perfectly manicured hands. Okay, I’m desperate enough, so I nod. “Fine. The two-foot rule is brilliant. Now, can you please get this cat off me before he decides to go for my throat?”
With a laugh, Emmersyn gets up and walks over. “Come on, you little troublemaker. Your new owner doesn’t seem to understand how to handle you just yet,” she coos at the cat, her voice soft and teasing. “I’ll give you some treats later. Maybe even throw an extra episode of Golden Girls, but you have to let Caleb breathe, okay?”
Bentley protests with a low growl but eventually allows himself to be moved, giving me one last glare before sauntering over to Em.
I sit up, rubbing my chest where Bentley’s claws left tiny indentations. “I swear, that cat has it out for me.”
“Maybe,” Emmersyn says. “Or maybe he just knows you’re not a cat person.”
Huh, I never thought of myself as a cat or a dog person, but . . . “I’m definitely not now,” I grumble, though I can’t help but smirk as I watch Emmersyn stroking Bentley’s fur like she’s won some kind of victory. And maybe she has .
As I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, I catch a glimpse of Emmersyn’s tiny shorts hugging her curves in a way that should be illegal. Her body is practically begging for attention— my attention—and it’s taking every ounce of willpower I have not to close the distance between us.
The two-foot rule? No PDA. No touching her pretty cunt—my pretty cunt? She is mine. Fuck the two-foot rule. Right now, all I can think about is crossing that imaginary line and claiming the little tease.
My eyes trace the curve of her ass, the way those shorts cling to her hips, and my mind starts to wander, imagining the heat of her skin under my hands. I can almost feel the softness of her breasts pressed against me, her breath hitching as I kiss her neck, trailing my lips down to that perfect spot just above her collarbone.
My hands itch to reach out, to grab her and pull her close, to feel the way her body responds to mine. I can see it in my mind—her sharp intake of breath, the way her eyes would flutter shut as I kiss her, the way her body would melt into me. It’s a dangerous thought, one that has my pulse quickening, my self-control hanging by a thread.
I want to push her down onto the bed, to tear those flimsy clothes off and explore every inch of her body, to feel her arch beneath me as I take my time, savoring the sounds she’d make as I drive her crazy. I want to taste her, to hear her moan my name as I claim her mouth, her pussy, her?—
Bentley’s low growl snaps me back to reality, and I shake my head, trying to clear the vivid images from my mind. But damn, they’re hard to shake. Emmersyn is still standing there, looking so effortlessly sexy, and all I can think about is how badly I want to close the gap and give in to everything my body is screaming for.
“Guess I’ll get dressed,” I mutter, more to myself than to her, as I head for my suitcase, determined to put some physical and mental distance between us before I do something we’ll both regret.
I pull out a shirt and jeans, trying to focus on the mundane task of getting ready for the day, but my mind keeps drifting back to Emmersyn and those damn shorts. As I start to change, I glance back at her. “You might want to get dressed too,” I suggest, keeping my tone as casual as I can manage. “We’ve got breakfast to deal with, and I doubt Max and Zoe will appreciate you showing up in . . . that.”
She looks down at herself, then back at me with a playful smirk. “What? You don’t think this is appropriate breakfast attire?”
My gaze drops to the tiny pajama shorts that barely cover anything, and I swallow hard. Every inch of her is a temptation, and those shorts aren’t doing me any favors.
“Eyes here,” she snaps her fingers and points at her eyes. “What’s wrong with my pajamas?” she repeats, her tone daring me to find fault.
“I mean, it’s fine, but . . .” I trail off, my brain short-circuiting as I try to find the right words.
“Glad you think they’re fine, because all my home clothing is like this,” she says with an air of innocence, though the gleam in her eyes is anything but.
“Is that a new thing? You usually like baggy clothes.” I eye her suspiciously.
“You’re too preoccupied with my clothes.” She chuckles, clearly enjoying my discomfort, before finally getting up and stretching, giving me another tantalizing view of her curves before heading to her suitcase.
“It’s just . . . different,” I say, instead of admitting that this is going to make me lose my ever-loving shit and that the no-PDA rule is going to go out the window before the end of the week. My cock is already hardening, and I can’t resist adjusting myself, the need throbbing low in my gut.
She catches the movement, her eyes flicking down to my crotch. A slow, knowing smile spreads across her lips as she deliberately lets her gaze linger. The heat in her eyes makes my pulse spike, and I can feel the tension ratcheting up between us.
“As a matter of fact,” she purrs, stepping closer, just enough to make my breath hitch, “I’ll be taking a shower, so I can feel more . . . refreshed.”
I should be the one taking the shower. My cock is getting so fucking hard, it’s a wonder I can still think straight. All I want to do is push her against any surface, feel those curves pressed up against me, and make her moan my name. I imagine tearing those tiny shorts off, my hands gripping her thighs as I lift her up, the heat of her core driving me insane as I slide my length into her, right there against the wall.
The way her breath would hitch as I thrust into her—hard, deep, the friction making her gasp and cling to me. Her nails would dig into my shoulders, leaving marks that would remind me of this moment later, every scrape a promise of more to come.
I can almost hear the sound of her voice, breathless and desperate, as she begs for me to go faster, deeper, until her screams fill the room, her entire body trembling with the need for more, only more. And I’d give it to her, every last bit of what she craves, until she’s lost to the pleasure, her mind blank but for my name on her lips.
The thought of filling her, of burying myself so deep inside her that there’s no part of her untouched, no part that isn’t claimed by me, drives me wild.I want to feel her shudder as I slam into her, over and over, until I can’t hold back anymore.
I imagine the way she’d gasp when I finally lose control, filling her up, marking her as mine again. The way her eyes would glaze over, knowing she’s been claimed, that she’s full of me, every drop a reminder that she belongs to me.
And fuck, the need consumes me, makes me want to take her until she’s completely and utterly wrecked, and all she can think about is how much she needs me, how much she wants to be filled, claimed, and absolutely owned.
But instead, I just stand there, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles turn white, watching her disappear into the bathroom. The sound of the water turning on does nothing to calm the storm raging inside me. I know she’s doing this on purpose, playing with me, testing my control.
And damn if I don’t want to fail that test spectacularly.