Page 31 of Catching Flynn

The woman on-screen hurled a drink at her boyfriend’s side chick.

“Not the blowout.” Flynn winced. “That cost a lot of money.”

Curled against the back of the couch, Flynn adjusted the phone in one hand while the other rested along Zavier’s warm side beneath the blanket. His thumb brushed lazily against Zavier’s rigid stomach while another woman joined the fight swinging.

“Oh damn.” Flynn’s eyes widened. “She did not come to play. Knocked out two of your cousins before she even cleared the doorway.”

A laugh almost escaped him, but it softened when he glanced over his shoulder.

Zavier was asleep behind him, stretched along the couch like the world’s laziest cat. One muscly arm was banded around Flynn’s waist, holding him tucked close even unconsciously.

Flynn’s gaze dipped, telling himself he was not perving on Zavier’s swollen biceps or his solid pecs. Wasn’t paying attention to a strong jawline, thick lashes, or sensual lips.

And Flynn definitely hadn’t noticed how shirtless his bodyguard was. It must’ve fallen off when he carried Flynn upstairs. Zavier had to have carried him. How else would Flynn have woken up in his cocoon with a roguish hunk wrapped around him?

Not that he was complaining.

At all.

Without that constant alertness in Zavier’s eyes, he looked younger somehow. Softer. Dangerous in a different way.

The apartment was quiet except for the muffled video and the occasional passing car outside.

And whatever that low rumbling sound was that Flynn just now noticed. Frowning, he glanced at his phone, thinking maybe a pop-up ad had caused the noise. Nope. Just a fourth woman with lime green nails long enough to double as weapons. “You should’ve brought more backup. And maybe Kevlar.”

There might’ve been an active cat fight on his phone, but no one in the video was purring. Flynn was rooting for punchy girl. Girlfriend had aura.

Remembering the noise, Flynn tapped the screen dark with his thumb. Then listened.

Nothing. Just an eerily quiet apartment at three in the morning. Flynn glanced at the shadows then the door, reminding himself that Zavier was lying right next to him. No bad guys could reach him. He was safely tucked behind his capable bodyguard. A barrier between Flynn and whatever danger might be lurking.

Taking a deep breath, he lifted his phone.

Prrr.

Flynn froze, wondering why his apartment was purring.

The sound was low and deep, vibrating against his hip where Zavier’s chest pressed into him.

You’re imagining the sound. It’s after three in the more, snack cupboard is empty, and your bodyguard sleeps with you every night. Literally. No nooky. Just restful, boring sleep. Of course, Flynn was hearing noises. His sexual frustrated had hit its limit, resulting in carpal tunnel from multiple jerkoffs, occasional bitchiness, and auditory hallucinations of content purring.

Slowly, Flynn glanced over his shoulder.

His eyes widened.

No. Absolutely not. But Flynn was already leaning closer, staring at Zavier’s sleeping face. The rumbling came again.

Holy. Shit. That wasn’t possible. People did not purr. Felines did. Tiny furry felons with no respect for personal space. Muscly bodyguards with forearms capable of ending civilizations or gently carrying an exhausted twink up three flights of stairs absolutely did not.

“What are you?”

Zavier opened his eyes, their gazes locking. “Bengal tiger.”

A high-pitched laugh escaped. Flynn slapped his hand over his mouth, then lowered it. “Wake up, Zavier. You’re dreaming.” Or maybe Flynn was. That would explain the sound.

“Not dreaming, kitten. I’m a Bengal tiger shifter.”

“You’re a cat.” Flynn pressed his hand over his own forehead. “No fever. No chills. Could be something else. Food poisoning? Black plague? An undiagnosed gluten intolerance? Maybe I went insane years ago, and this mental scape is my new reality. If this is psychosis, the production value sucks.” He turned with a wiggled to face Zavier. “My broken mind shoves me in this reality with a stalker who’s into serial-killer-style love notes, a bank account deathly allergic to money, and a total crush who has fantasies about fluffy yarn balls and dappled sunlight.”