Page 52 of Lucky Haven

Haven

It’s startling how quickly Cash becomes a constant part of my evening routine. The next night, he needs to work late, so he walks me home and then heads back to the garage, but promises to return when he finishes the brake job he wants to get done.

When he returns, he has a Saskatoon berry pie and a pint of homemade vanilla ice cream with him. “When you stay late to finish repairing a mini van for a family of seven, sometimes you get sweet bonuses.”

I get us two bowls, and we share dessert while we read side by side.

After Cash takes our bowls to the sink, he returns and leans against me, yawning. “Do you mind if I close my eyes?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m not great company tonight.”

“You worked twelve hours. I don’t expect⁠—”

A soft snore interrupts me.

I giggle and shift myself so I can still read as he naps against me.

When I turn the page, he startles awake.

Okay, Cash is a light sleeper.

I lightly scratch the side of his head. “Go back to sleep.”

He relaxes again, but this time, he doesn’t drift off. He yawns a couple of times, but he’s still awake, I can feel it in his body, even though his eyes are closed.

“That feels good,” he finally murmurs. “The way you’re scritching my head, I like that.”

I roll my fingertips against his scalp, dragging my nails through the little hairs, then following that same path with the pads of my fingers.

He purrs like a big ol’ pussy cat. I laugh to myself at the image of Cash morphing into a happy tiger.

“What’s so funny?” he mumbles.

“You’re like an overgrown wild cat, domesticated as a pet. Complete with a happy little purr.”

“I’ll be your pet any night of the week.” He shifts onto his back. “Call me good boy and I’ll do it again.”

I rub my thumb along the curve of his ear, smiling as I watch him get comfortable. I push my fingers into his short cropped beard—and then go still as my gaze slides down his body.

His thick, long legs have fallen wide, one of them hooked over the end of the couch, the other planted on the floor. And where they meet, he’s undeniably aroused. A thick bulge strains at the fly of his jeans.

“You are a good boy,” I whisper.

He must hear the change in my voice, because his eyes blink open and he stares up at me. I can feel his attention shift from my face—which is on fire—to where I’m staring.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don’t be.” Heat swirls through me as I instinctively rub his ear again. “Did I do that?”

“Side effect of enjoying your touch.”

“Does it hurt?” It looks really stuffed into his jeans, like the fabric might tear apart at the seams if he enjoys my touch a second more.

He huffs a strained laugh. “No, and if any man ever tells you that he needs you to help him with it because it hurts too much, that guy is a dickhead who needs to be punched in the face. It doesn’t hurt. Not to put too blunt of a point on the obvious, but it feels good. Don’t stop scritching. I’m in no rush to get rid of my erection.”

I giggle and resume the head scratches and ear rubs, trailing my fingers down his throat, up over his Adam’s apple, petting him like he actually is my overgrown pet.