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Something is wrong. All of my muscles ache like I went on a ten-mile hike, but there’s an aura of pleasant exhaustion and euphoria mixed with the achiness.
I shift and open my eyes. Two curled-up gray balls of long-haired fluff are lying on the pillow next to me.
Cats.
Milo.
Valentine’s.
Crazy, scorching hot minotaur sex with the guy of my dreams (even though I never knew I could have dreams that included a “mythological creature”).
Did he leave?
I sit up.
I squelch.
Oh my God. I need a shower. Now.
“Libby? I made you eggs and toast.” Milo’s voice calls from outside the bedroom door. It’s soft and hesitant.
My heart thumps. How do I look? If I stand up, will it be humiliating?
But I’m smiling. Milo stayed. He made breakfast.
“I’m awake. I’m not presentable, but I’m awake.”
Milo pushes the door all the way open and comes in carrying scrambled eggs loosely arranged in a heart shape flanked by sliced apples and two pieces of perfectly golden toast.
“I wanted to give you strawberries or something like that, but—”
“Don’t apologize. It’s my kitchen and I only have apples or oranges, probably. Thank you so much.” I love the way he grins, cheeks up but eyes down. I think I’m blushing, too. “No one has ever made me breakfast in bed before.”
“Well, I probably can’t do it every time, but... well. You know, maybe I could. I work nights, so your breakfast might be my dinner.”
He’s planning it out. Planning a future with me in it.
“Oh. Sorry. Jumping ahead, aren’t I?”
Play it cool, Libby. “Well, we should make it through one weekend, first,” I laugh lightly.
“Absolutely. Come on, babies. Let Mommy eat her eggs. Daddy made your kitten formula and found you some newspaper balls to bat around.”
Milo kisses my cheek, snaps his fingers, and the sleeping gray bundles are up and crawling onto his arm. They make straight for the wide, flat space between his horns and sit there, staring at everything with bright, blinking eyes.
Now my heart is a squishy pile of goo, too.
Forget the weekend, I’m mentally picturing Milo rocking an infant with tiny horn buds and a tiny twig of a tail to sleep as I tidy the nursery.
What the ever-loving hell have I been smoking? Does minotaur cum turn women into 1950s housewives?
I rub my head. “That’s a sentence that’s never been thought of before,” I groan. Without another thought, I shovel eggs into my mouth. “Mmm.” Damn. He can cook, too.
“I TOLD YOU I’D CLEAN you up and cuddle you.” Milo is back, sans kittens. “Let me take your plate.”
I pull it out of his reach and put it on my nightstand. “Milo. You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot. Last night was amazing. You’re amazing. No, really. Not just because you’re good in bed and you saved me from a scary situation with Ricky. Not just because you’re an awesome cat-daddy and I like your taste in music.” From the kitchen, I can hear the thumping bass line of Ace of Spades by Motorhead.
“I’m glad. But... this is how minotaurs treat their women. A woman is a gift. A treasure. Without her, there is no family, no home, and no comfort. My father still looks at my mother in a way that would make a sailor blush.” Milo shuffles his hooves and his tail swings at his ankles (or do I say hocks?).
