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“No problem.” I stifle another chuckle as a teenage boy gives Mike, who pokes his alien-looking head out of the sling, the side-eye. “This might be the most entertaining thing we’ve done all weekend.” I finally give in to the laugh when the boy stumbles, nearly taking down the girl he has his arm around.
“Really?” Chase pulls me in closer, his breath tickling my ear when he whispers, “Even that thing I did with my hand under your dress on the tour bus while people—”
“Okay!” I yell, the heat rising in my cheeks.
Chase smirks knowingly.
I roll my eyes thinking of the orgasm he gave me as we drove through Times Square on the open top of the double-decker bus. Hopefully New Yorkers and tourists alike had been so enthralled with all the other interesting things going on around them that my flushed face, glazed eyes and low moan hadn’t registered. “Maybe not the most entertaining.”
We stop at another crosswalk, and Chase takes the moment to kiss my temple. The simple touch melts my heart. Who’d have thought my heart could still melt? That it had room, or even a need, for tenderness? That his public displays of affection wouldn’t make me uncomfortable, but rather cherished and safe. All weekend Chase hasn’t stopped touching me. And I’m not talking sex, although there has been plenty of that. I’m talking hand-holding, soft kisses, couch cuddling.
I slip my hand into his back pocket. Just one gentle squeeze of his ass sends a shiver running down my spine.
“You cold?” he asks, glancing down at me.
“Nope,” I say, popping the p and trying to pretend like I’m not feeling him up in public. I’m pretty sure the heat spreading down my neck gives me away. I change the subject. “You think Mike’s okay, though?”
“Yeah, he’s loving it.”
The spring weather really is lovely. There’s a whole song about Paris in the spring, but I’d bet money New York is just as nice. The cotton dress I picked up from my hotel room yesterday (after Chase and I christened the room) flutters with the breeze, and my toes wiggle comfortably in my sandals. But Mike, being a sphynx, is just skin and bones. Worried he’d be cold, Chase sneak-tackled him earlier, forcing the uncooperative feline into a light blue sweater embroidered with wiener dogs. The struggle had been almost as hilarious as a hairless pussy wearing a bunch of wieners.
I’m pretty sure Chase chose the outfit in retaliation for last night’s cat dick missile.
However, after the initial struggle, Mike didn’t seem to care about his sweater. In fact, after it was tugged down his bare torso, he’d simply sniffed like a condescending bourgeois, then leapt into my arms to motorboat my boobs. Which prompted Chase to mutter about traitorous, cock-blocking pussies.
Chase isn’t exactly wrong about the cock-blocking. Mike has claimed me as his own, even hissing at Chase if he tries to get too close to me.
Such a sweet kitty.
We pass by a Chinese place, reminding me of our takeout from last night. Chase didn’t have much of an appetite after his junk got punched, and I don’t remember much after falling asleep at the end of Die Hard. But in between, I’d felt content and happy, cuddled into Chase’s side. It’s a little unnerving that these feelings I have for Chase were present last night, even without the sex.
A loud gurgle disrupts my thoughts. I rub my tummy. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
“You,” he says, not missing a beat.
I pretend my panties didn’t just start to tingle. “That’s a given. I’m both the appetizer and dessert. But a girl’s got to eat to maintain her stamina.” I reach inside the carrier and scratch behind Mike’s ear. “So what are you feeding me besides your dick?”
Chase barks out a laugh, causing Mike to hiss and swat at his face. Luckily, Chase’s pretty visage is out of reach. “Sorry, Mikey. Your new girlfriend has a filthy mouth.”
He kisses the top of my head while I try not to freak out about the word ‘girlfriend.’
Continuing like he hasn’t just given me a mini heart attack, Chase suggests pizza. “Have you had real pizza since you’ve been back to the best city on Earth?”
“That depends on what you consider real pizza.”
“The only real pizza is New York style pizza, Campbell. You can’t even try to argue with that. Do they even have pizza in Texas?”
“Yes.” I glare. “They have pizza in Texas.”
“Yeah, but good pizza?”
“Okay, smart-ass.” I pinch his backside in retaliation, smiling when he jumps. “It may be true that New York has the best pizza, but are you smart enough to know which pizzeria has the best pizza in Manhattan?”
He narrows his eyes. “Is this a test?”
“Yep.”
He chuckles again, but this time Mike stays content in his carrier. Probably ’cause I’m still petting him.
