“You’re blushing.”
“I’m warm. The fire’s too high.”
“The fire’s in the other room.”
“Residual heat.”
Samuel plucked the notebook from my hands—I let him, because resisting would only make it more suspicious—and set it on the nightstand without opening it. Then he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.
Soft at first. Testing. But when I opened for him, when my hands came up to grip his bare shoulders, he deepened it immediately. His tongue slid against mine, hot and demanding, and I pulled him closer, wanting to feel all that warm skin against me.
He shifted until he was practically in my lap, his weight pressing me into the pillows. My hands explored his back—smooth skin, hard muscle, the dip of his spine—while his mouth moved to my jaw, my neck, that spot behind my ear that made me gasp.
“Is this okay?” he murmured against my skin.
“Yes, God, yes.”
His hand slid under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, and I arched into the touch. He was everywhere—his mouth, his hands, his weight—and I wanted more, wanted everything, wanted to cross off every single item on that list in one night—
Something furry inserted itself between our bodies.
We both froze.
Purrsephone had apparently decided that the foot of the bed was no longer acceptable and had migrated directly into the four inches of space between our chests. She was purring loudly, kneading the blanket with her paws, completely oblivious—or perhaps completely aware—of what she’d just interrupted.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Samuel said.
I dropped my head back against the pillow and laughed. It wasn’t funny—it was the opposite of funny. It was tragic—but what else could I do?
“She has the worst timing,” I said.
“The worst.” Samuel glared at the cat, who blinked up at him with her mismatched eyes, the picture of innocence. “Move.”
She didn’t move. Purrsephone stretched out longer, taking up more space.
Samuel tried to nudge her gently aside. She responded by rolling onto her back and presenting her belly, which in cat language meant touch me and lose a finger.
“She’s not moving,” Samuel said flatly.
“She never moves once she’s settled.”
He looked at me, then at the cat, then back at me. The frustration on his face was so acute it was almost comical.
“I’m being cockblocked by a cat,” he bitched. “This is my life now.”
“She’s very effective.”
“She’s a menace.” But he was smiling now, reluctantly, as he settled onto his side of the bed. “Rain check?”
“Rain check,” I agreed, though every cell in my body was protesting.
Samuel reached over Purrsephone to take my hand, threading our fingers together. It was somehow more intimate than the kissing had been—this quiet moment, this simple touch, this acknowledgment that whatever was happening between us wasn’t going anywhere.
I turned off the lamp with my free hand and lay there in the darkness, listening to Samuel’s breathing slow, feeling the warmth of his hand in mine and the weight of the cat between us.
Item three, I thought. Crossed off.
It was a small victory. But I’d take it.
