Chapter 7 #2
He sprang up and scrubbed a hand over his face, then searched the cushions. He didn’t seem to be fully awake yet, but the moment his brain roused, his panic disappeared. “He’s here.” Reaching into the front pocket of his shirt, he withdrew the tiny puff of grey.
“Awww.” She took him into her hands and cradled him close. “He’s precious.”
“I call him Rat.”
She frowned at him. “That’s horrible.”
He shrugged. “He looks like a wet rat.”
She clicked her disapproval and spoke to the cat in motherese, “I won’t let him name you after a rodent.” It was a tradition at The Haven to name all the rescues after holiday words. That was why they had Figgy, Nog, Snowball, Garland, Spruce, and Sugarplum. “You look like a Tinsel to me.”
“You can’t call him that. He needs a manly name, or the others will bully him. He’s already got a size disadvantage.”
The kitten was definitely the runt of the litter. “There weren’t any others?”
“Nope. Found him shivering under the porch.”
“Thank goodness you heard him.” She gave the kitten a nuzzle and then drew back. “First things first, you need a bath.” She looked over at Greyson. “You probably want to throw that shirt in the wash. Chances are he has fleas.”
She carried the cat to the kitchen and got to work. First, she set out a towel, soft washcloth, mild, unscented baby shampoo, and a small plastic cup, then she filled the basin of the sink with an inch of warm water.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Greyson stripping out of his shirt and tossing it into the wash closet down the hall.
Her lips parted as he reached for the laundry detergent, thick ropes of muscle twisting along his arms as sinew stretched and rippled down his back with every turn. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.
Her stomach dropped as he bent over. The curve of his spine and those exposed muscles were not something the average man could claim. She swallowed and removed her jacket, suddenly warm.
Greyson turned—caught her staring—and she dropped her attention back to Tinsel.
“Well,” she said, forgetting for a moment what she was supposed to be doing. “How about some Enya to set the vibe. This is your first spa visit, after all.”
She tapped her phone and pulled up one of the playlists she used at The Haven for various treatments. Enya’s crooning voice paired perfectly with the trickling water. Tinsel sidestepped her fingers and stumbled along the counter, chirping away like a little cricket.
“What did he put in that milk? You’re walking like you’re drunk.”
“He’s probably feral,” Greyson said, sneaking up behind her.
Her spine stiffened when his bare arm reached past her to scratch the kitten, and she realized he hadn’t put on a fresh shirt.
“Possibly.” She kept her eyes on Tinsel. “Kittens need socializing until about seven weeks. He looks younger than that. The fact that you found him alone is a little concerning.”
“Nah, Rat’s tough. He’ll be just fine once he gets a good night’s sleep and a good meal in him.”
“His name is Tinsel.” She shut off the faucet and prepped her washcloth with some shampoo, then sloshed it around the warm water. “He doesn’t look like any of ours, which means there’s another female out there needing to get spayed.”
“You’re dunking him in there? I thought cats don’t like water.”
“Older ones don’t. It depends on how they’re brought up.
But, no, he’s too young for a full bath.
” She cradled Tinsel to her chest, holding him close so he felt safe and secure.
“You’re okay, baby.” Using her wet fingers, she gently stroked between his ears.
His feather-like fur was fine enough that he was wet in only a few soft pets.
“I don’t think he likes that.”
The kitten chirped and squawked, its little needle claws pawing at her as he desperately sought escape.
“Squirt a dab of shampoo in my hand.” She held out her palm and Greyson gave the bottle a squeeze.
Using the sink water, she formed a lather and stroked Tinsel, making sure to get all his hidden crevices.
“He hates it.” Greyson frowned, hovering every step of the way.
Wren was careful to avoid the kitten’s ears, eyes, and mouth. Once he was covered in suds, she held him over the sink and used the cup to rinse him off gently, shielding his face and making sure the water was warm, but he cried the entire time.
As soon as the water rinsed clear, she pulled him back to her chest. “Hand me the towel.”
Greyson was already unfolding it. She swaddled Tinsel up like the world’s smallest burrito, and he finally stopped crying. A second later, his eyes were closed, and his motor was softly purring again.
“I think we tired him out.”
Greyson stepped closer to peek at the little bundle. “I still think he looks like a rat.”
“He’ll be cuter when he dries.” She tipped her chin toward her basket on the counter. “There’s a heating pad in there. Can you set it up in his box?”
While Greyson prepared the kitty condo, she rocked and hummed softly to Enya. Once he was done, she laid Tinsel inside and nestled a fresh towel around him to keep him warm. He was out cold.
“Sweet little feral gremlin.”
They both reached out to pet him at the same time and stopped when their hands accidentally touched. Greyson pulled back first.
Great, back to awkwardness.
Wren cleaned up her supplies and pulled out the canister of kitten formula and a bottle. “He’s still too small for solid food, so he’s going to need formula for a while longer.”
Greyson cleared his throat and looked up at the rafters. “Your, uh, shirt.”
She looked down and gasped. The entire front of her T-shirt was soaked, her nipples pressing noticeably against the wet cotton. She grabbed a towel to cover her chest then decided not to.
“You act like you’ve never seen my boobs.”
“Jesus, Wren.” He still wouldn’t look at her.
“Oh, come on, Grey. You’re being ridiculous. I’m wearing more clothes than you.”
He glared at her then, his gaze shifting to her chest and back to her eyes. Every shift of his breathing was evident in the rise and fall of his chest.
He acted like he hated the sight of her this way, but he obviously didn’t.
She couldn’t understand why he’d fight something he so clearly wanted.
Or, at least she thought he liked it. She wasn’t entirely sure, since she didn’t have much experience with men.
And Greyson was unlike every other man she’d ever met.
With an unsteady breath, she met his stare and said, “I could... take it off.”
“Don’t start.”
“Don’t start what?” She took a step back, gathering the hem of her shirt and twisting it around her fingers.
“Wren.”
The corner of her mouth curved upward. He could try to play the serious grump with her, but she knew him too well and couldn’t resist teasing him when he got all stern and bossy.
Pushing her mouth into a pout, she held his stare. “But I’m all wet, Greyson.”
He sprang for her. “Brat—”
She laughed and bolted, rushing around the rustic farm table, laughing as she zigged and zagged out of reach. When he finally caught her, they were both out of breath.
Something about being captured in his strength caused her insides to melt. She closed her eyes and sank into his hold. Her softness curved into his hardened body, and she savored the rightness of being in his arms.
Time stilled. Was he feeling it too? How could he not? Or, perhaps this was what it felt like for him with every woman.
The thought turned her stomach. She didn’t want to picture him with other females, even though she was sure he’d had his fair share of experiences.
Panting softly, she carefully turned to face him without untangling from his hold. His grip tightened, his calloused palm dragging slowly over her hip. She arched back to look him in the eye, her back pressing against the edge of the table.
No matter what he said or how deeply he frowned, he wasn’t unaffected. His lips parted as his gaze drifted to her chest.
Slowly, as if approaching a skittish wild animal twice her size, she leaned up and gently brushed her lips over his.
He stilled. Even his breathing seemed to stop. But he didn’t pull back.
Softly, she whispered, “Did you want to take it off for me?”
The catch of his breath sent more heat rushing to her core. “You’re out of control.”
“Am I?” She purposely went languid in his arms, and he tugged her closer.
His knee wedged between her thighs, forcing her to straddle his leg. She showed no resistance, and his grip tightened. “What are you doing, Wren?”
“Giving in.”
“To what?”
“You.” The tension in her body went slack, and his gaze again dropped to her chest.
The heat of his calloused palm rode over her hip to cup her ass. He studied her face as if waiting for her to object. When she didn’t, he slid his hand under the hem of her shirt. In the silence of the house, she could hear every ruffle of fabric and every intense breath.
Chills raced over her flesh as his rough fingertips treaded slowly against her skin.
Higher. Higher. The anticipation was a drug that instantly addicted her but might also kill her.
She needed his hands on her, rough and strong.
She wanted him to grab her and pull off her clothes in a fit of madness, but Greyson was a master of control, and all she could do was wait, praying sensibility didn’t return and scare him off.
Heat engulfed her damp flesh, and her lips parted when his warm palm finally cupped her breast. This was what she’d spent the last several days fantasizing about, unsure if she’d ever experience his hands on her again.
It was slow and possessive, overwhelming her with a sense of safety that somehow felt equally dangerous.
“We’re not doing this,” he said as he proceeded to peel down the cup of her damp bra to drag the side of his thumb over the turgid tip of her nipple.
If he needed her to lie, she’d lie. “Of course not. That would be bad.”
“Very bad.”
“Horrible.”