Sliding one hand beneath him, I gently but firmly lift him off me, depositing him beside the pillow. He grumbles in a low, offended mewl.
My feet slip into thePrada shearling-lined muleswaiting precisely where they belong beside the bed. I cross the bedroom in long, efficient strides and move into the ensuite. In the glorious master closet I had custom designed, I strip out of my black silk sleep pants and slip into shorts, a compression shirt, and tennis shoes.
I snag my phone and ear pods off the charger on the way out of my bedroom and step across the hall into my home office slash gym combo. My morning routine consists of an hour at a brisk pace on a steep incline. I can get emails answered, appointments scheduled while still getting a good sweat in. Plus, the incline keeps my lower body—which I’m already genetically blessed with—in top shape.
At 4:15, I hop off the treadmill to go shower.
The bathroom fills with steam as I step into the glass-encased stall. Heat hits my shoulders and rolls down my spine.
It’s the same every day.
But today—my brain betrays me.
Ryan.
Ryan and hisdamn selfie. I scrub a hand over my chest.
The nerve of that guy.
Why would he even send me a picture like that?
All post-workout glow, muscles pumped up like he just got done shooting one of his sports drink commercials.
And those stupid dimples.
Not just two dimples either.
Apparently, the universe decided two wasn’t devastating enough and planted athird one right on his chin. I grab the shampoo bottle and work it into my hair a little more aggressively than necessary.
I amabsolutelynotweak for dimples.
I certainly did not open my messages to look at that selfienine more times. And I most definitely didnotjerk off twice to it before finally falling asleep.
My jaw tenses and water streams down my body as I glance down. My cock is already half hard just thinking about that damn selfie.
Fantastic.
I sigh toward the ceiling.
Ryan is lucky I don’t entertain teasing, let alonedoinganything withstraight men. It’s one of my rules. I havefourwhen it comes to sex, and that one is as iron-clad as the other three.
Ryan Buterbaugh is lucky that rule exists.
I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and cut that train of thought off completely.
No. Absolutely not.
I step out of the shower, grab a towel, and wrap it around my waist. The bathroom door creaks open a second later and a familiarmeowechoes across the tile. I look down and Fucker is weaving between my ankles. “No. Don’t rub against me,” I warn.
He does it anyway.
“You know I’m going to feed you. Our routine never changes.” He meows again, louder and more demanding.
“Come on, Fucker,” I sigh. “Coffee for me and breakfast for you.”
I pull on a pair ofblack boxer briefs, slide my feet back into the mules, and head into the kitchen. Fucker trots behind me the entire way, narrating the journey with impatient complaints.
My condo kitchen is massive.
