Emily starts singing again, something about sending him scented letters and strange delights. Her voice is just as soft and sweet as her. Despite the ridiculousness of the lyrics, I’m quietly mesmerized. “She signed the letters, all yours, Babooshka, Babooshka, Babooshka, ya-ya.”
I clear my throat and shove my hands into my pockets as my eyes lock on Emily’s lips, tracing the shape of the wordsall yours.
I shouldn’t be thinking this. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help myself.
I wish—more than anything—that she were all mine.
Chapter 29
Dominic
“For fuck’s sake,” I growl, yanking the pillow over my head.
My room is at the back of the house, and the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but for the past fucking hour all I’ve heard is, “Meow. Meow. Meow.”
Now there’s scratching at the glass, tiny claws raking over it like a miniature, furry hitman making sure I know my yard and my life are now under new management.
I’ve got news for him.
I peel the pillow back just enough to glare at the round silhouette of a cat on the windowsill. I’m honestly surprised the fat fuck can even sit on it without toppling off.
My fingers fist the pillowcase before I hurl it across the room in his direction. “You freeloading little fucker,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
The stupid fat cunt just continues to stare at me, like he’s not bothered in the slightest. “You’ve got five seconds to stop, and get the fuck out of here, or I swear I’ll kick you all the way into next week. Go annoy one of the other neighbours. I’m trying to sleep.”
When I get a smug “Meow” in response, I reach my limit.
I throw back my covers and leap from the bed. The cat eyes me suspiciously, and I’m not sure if it’s sizing me up or getting ready to flee.
But, instead of moving towards the window, I swing my bedroom door open and thunder down the hall like a sleep-deprived maniac.
When I reach Emily’s room, I don’t slow down. I barge right in with zero hesitation. Privacy is for people who aren’t being held hostage by a fat feline terrorist.
Emily Ashford started this bullshit, so she can damn well deal with it.
This is precisely why you don’t feed a greedy fucking animal like Baboo-whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is. You shoo it out of your yard and let it haunt someone else’s life.
Strays—or greedy little guts AKA the furball currently ruining my life—get attached when they sense weakness … and unfortunately, Emily practically bleeds it.
I pause at the edge of her bed, something soft and silky catching under my foot. I glance down, and my eyes narrow when I see what’s peeking out from beneath my toes.
Red satin.
Her underwear.
A slow, dangerous heat crawls up my spine.
I move my foot and bend to scoop the tiny scrap of fabric up between my fingers like I’m handling evidence from a scene I should absolutely walk away from, but of course I don’t.
Kleptomania hits again, hard, because I can’t even talk myself out of it. I ball the satin up, move my hand behind me, and shove them past the waistband of my boxers. I’m damn well keeping them. Call it compensation for the obese tyrant currently holding court on my windowsill.
I straighten, trying to act casual, but when my eyesflicker back to Emily, her wide, unblinking baby blues are now locked on me. “Why are you in my room?” she asks, her voice laced with suspicion.
Was she watching me the whole time? And how the fuck would I even begin to explain what I did with her underwear?
Maybe the better question is, why the hell was her underwear lying on the floor beside her bed in the first place? Is she going commando under those covers? Fuck. I scrub the thought from my brain before my cock gets any ideas.
“We have a problem,” I grumble.
