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“Not a clue.” I shook my head, walking down the hall and into my bedroom. “I did hear the words if your pet gets lost, though, so I’m kind of hoping you’re on to something.”
“You’ve never heard of microchips before?” Thatch stayed hot on my heels, seemingly making himself right at home and plopping his fine ass onto my bed.
“Um, no. But that’s probably because I don’t have any pets that would require one,” I muttered, rummaging through my armoire and pulling a white lace bra out of the drawer.
“Have you ever owned a pet?”
I turned to face him, hand on my hip. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You just don’t really seem like the pet-owning type.” He shrugged, sliding his giant hands behind his head. His biceps flexed from the movement, making those delicious muscles pop and protrude for my appreciative eyes.
I had always had a thing for biceps. Big, thick, muscular arms were my jam. And for the love of porn GIFs, did this man have some glorious fucking biceps. I wanted to pet them, caress them, rub my tongue, tits, and pussy all over them.
Yeah, I don’t understand the whole dynamics of rubbing my vagina on his arms either, but I thought it, so there you have it.
“Cass?” His voice pulled me from my bicep-humping daydream.
“Huh?”
He flashed a knowing smirk in my direction. “You never answered my question.”
“Obviously, it didn’t seem that important to me. Otherwise, I would’ve answered,” I retorted as I Houdini’d my bra on without removing my shirt. I honestly didn’t know what Thatch would do if he got another glance at my bare chest.
“You can touch them, you know.” He flexed one meaty arm and winked. “You can touch any fucking thing you want.”
Obviously, Mr. Ego hadn’t missed my admiring perusal of his arms.
I sighed. “Just because I was appreciating your fuck-hot body does not mean I want to play hide the salami. I’d need a blood test before I even thought about letting you inside my tight, hot pussy.”
“Prove it, honey.”
“Prove what?”
He patted the empty spot on the bed beside him. “I need to know exactly how tight and hot before I provide you with a vial of my blood and medical records.”
“Get over yourself,” I said with a laugh. “And what did you ask me before?”
“Have you ever had a pet?”
Childhood memories flooded my brain. “Like, as a kid?”
“Yeah, did you have a dog or cat or even a goldfish?”
I nodded, picturing Dad running through the backyard. “As a matter of fact, I did have a pet growing up.”
He waited a good thirty seconds before saying, “Okay, care to share?”
“When I was eight, I had a mini-pig. He was the coolest motherfucking pet in my neighborhood. I loved that pig. Probably more than my baby brother, Sean.”
“What was his name?”
“Dad.”
His eyebrows scrunched together. “Dad?”
“Yeah, his name was Dad. Dad, the mini-pig. He was white with—” I started to respond, but Thatch held his hand up, laughter spilling from his lips.
“Hold up. Your pig’s name was Dad?”
“Uh, yeah.” My right eyebrow rose on my forehead, high and annoyed. “How many times do I have to tell you my pig’s name?”
“Who named him?”
“Me. I named him. He was my pig.” I stared at him, frustrated by his interrogation. “English is your first language, right?”
He chuckled at that. “You realize how fucking absurd and downright hilarious it is that you, little toothless, pigtail-wearing-Cassie, named her pig Dad, right?”
“He looked like a Dad. And I was never innocent enough to pull off pigtails.”
“Fuck, you’re fantastic.” A giant grin consumed his face. “What happened to Dad?”
“My mom got tired of him constantly tearing up the house, so they sent him to a farm.”
“A farm, farm? Or like ‘a farm’?” he asked, gesturing quotation marks with his fingers.
I squinted. “I don’t understand the difference. I thought a farm was a fucking farm.”
He slowly tilted his head to the side, assessing my incredulous expression. After a few seconds, he merely smiled and got off my bed, walking around my bedroom and getting all up in my personal shit.
I followed his big-ass feet across the room, yanking a picture frame from his hands. “Not so fast, Thatcher. What other kind of farm are you talking about?”
For a fraction of a second, I watched his eyes go wide before he schooled his expression into one that was irritatingly neutral.
