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“I’m heading to the shower,” Art says.
“Okay,” I reply breathlessly.
The sudsy images flood my mind again—that is, until the chinchilla pounces and rips the dandelion root from my hands.
“Wow. That’s a bit violent, but whatever.”
Fluffer’s eyes gleam in victory.
How could I be sure that the dandelion root wasn’t bait? Better be safe than eaten.
He begins munching and looks like he’s savoring every bite. It’s so adorable. I really want to pet him.
Sure, pet me with your carnivorous teeth.
After the root is gone, Fluffer grabs a wooden stick and gnaws on it as I watch with a grin.
Eager to catch his attention again, I hold out the rosehip. “Want this?”
In a blur of fur, Fluffer rushes at me, snatches this new treat, then hops over to the top shelf and turns his back to me as he enjoys it.
Rude, but kind of in a cute way.
When the treat is gone—and it might be my imagination—there’s a lot more warmth in Fluffer’s eyes. Maybe even a little bit of trust.
If you feed me that for twenty years straight, I’ll let you eat me.
“Was he a good boy?” Art asks, startling me.
I leap to my feet and take him in. He’s wearing PJs, which is a shame, but his wet hair revs up my X-rated imagination anyway, and I nearly choke on drool. “That was a quick shower,” I stammer.
“It’s a habit I picked up in the army.”
My mouth falls open. “You were in the army?”
Was he part of the super-secret, Russian ballet special forces? In Avengers: Age of Ultron, we got a glimpse into Black Widow’s past and learned that she trained in ballet, so anything’s possible. Maybe Art can even dance-fight, like the girl in the latest Jumanji remake.
“I was conscripted,” Art says. “All Russian men are.”
I force my still-open mouth shut because the sight of my teeth might frighten poor Fluffer. “I didn’t know that. Was it hard?”
He shrugs. “Compared to the detdom, it was a cakewalk.”
Damn it. Every time he mentions the orphanage, I want to leap at him with a hug, but I don’t think that’s proper fake wife behavior.
“Good night,” I say, but the words sound like a question.
I really want him to reply with, “Stay.”
“Night.” He blows me an air kiss.
Boo. But hey, that’s something.
I catch the kiss when I know he’s not looking and keep it in my fist until I lock the bedroom door.
Feeling like a goof, I stick the imaginary kiss into my panties. Could I be more insane? I blame the hormones—and the only way to tame them is in my nightstand drawer.
It takes an hour and a few orgasms, but I finally go to sleep.
