Which, admittedly, sounded bad.
Very bad.
Almost as bad as the leash situation.
From inside the room, Martha groaned again.
The mattress creaked.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Not because I was picturing anything.
I was a gentleman.
A tortured gentleman.
A gentleman currently being murdered by his own senses.
"Stop thinking about him," she muttered.
Oliver practically vibrated. ‘Mate cannot.’
‘Shut up.’ I hissed even if I was practically over the moon. She was thinking about me. ME. Me?!
Mr Bigshot had appeared at the end of the hallway.
Of course he had.
The little demon sat down, curled his tail around his paws and stared at me.
Like he knew.
Like he was enjoying this.
I bared my teeth at him.
He yawned.
Inside the room, Martha went quiet.
Too quiet.
Oliver moved forward
