Page 133 of South Beach Bodyguards

I hadn’t just gone for chicken. I had gone to collect my thoughts so I could be normal around her. It was a good move. I felt in control again, even if I had a video playing on repeat in my head of me thrusting into her warm heat without a condom, the way her eyes had rolled back, and she had bit her lip in ecstatic anguish.

Miranda answered her door with a knife in her hand. That was unexpected. I eyed it. “What the hell are you planning to do with that?”

“Kill someone if necessary.”

“Damn.” I shook my head as I stepped into her duplex. “Remind me not to piss you off.” She was holding the weapon correctly. Firm grip. Ready to gut.

“Too late,” she said. “You already have today. But I forgive you because you helped me move and you’re pretending to be my boyfriend.”

Part of me wanted to ask what specifically I had done, other than get a little bossy and demanding, but I didn’t want her to get indignant all over again. The house was a jumble of boxes and furniture haphazardly placed and I realized after I ate I was going to have to do something about the mess for her. This was too much for her to tackle at nine at night. “If you’re telling your neighbor I live here, I wouldn’t be knocking on your front door.”

“That is a good point.” She bent over, and my throat tightened.

Damn, she had a hot body. I wanted that, all of that. Tonight and every night after that. There was the rub. I had thought all I wanted was a taste of her, but she was everything I had expected and more and now I couldn’t quit the idea of us repeating earlier. Daily. I wondered if she had showered while I was gone or if she still wore me on her. My scent. My cum.

My cock started to swell again, thinking about how close her head was to it. If she just shifted and opened her mouth…

“Look at this little guy,” she said, standing back up with a large cat in her arms. He was all fluff and fat and lazy attitude. He didn’t even attempt to help her hold him but lay there as dead weight, fully trusting her. He was clearly a house cat, not a stray or an outdoor cat belonging to one of the houses nearby.

“That’s definitely an indoor cat. He’s in serious need of a gym membership.” His stomach rolls were spilling over Miranda’s arm.

Miranda laughed. “Hush. He’s just big-boned.”

“Yeah, that’s what my aunt Freda says too and it’s a lie. It’s called empanadas at midnight.”

“This cat is not eating empanadas at midnight.” She squeezed him tighter. “And don’t be mean. You’ll give him body image issues.”

That made me snort. “All right, are you calling the number on this collar or am I?”

“Why don’t you call it?”

“Sure.” I flicked the tag over and pulled out my phone.

Miranda was right. I could instantly hear it ringing in the attached apartment next door. That was weird. “Can you put the knife down?” I murmured to her. “You’re making me nervous.”

I had never seen Miranda wielding a weapon and with a cat in her arms. It was a strange juxtaposition I couldn’t like. Miranda and violence didn’t go hand in hand and frankly I was afraid she would accidentally nick herself and the chubby cat.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice. Gruff and scratchy.

“Yeah, hi, I found your cat. The orange guy.”

Miranda was mouthing a name to me but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. I just shook my head.

“I don’t have a cat.”

Interesting. “Your number is on his tag.”

“Well, I don’t know why because I don’t have a cat.”

“Okay then. Sorry to bother you.” I ended the call and frowned. “He’s denying the cat is his.”

“I’m telling you, the guy next door is nuts.” Miranda bit her lip. She kissed the top of the cat’s head and set him down. “I’m so upset. I love this house. I don’t want a creeper next door. Why would he say the cat isn’t his?”

“The cat looks well cared for, too. This is strange.” I couldn’t figure out the strategy or end plan if this was some kind of setup. “What is his name, by the way?”

“Max.” Her cheeks flushed.

I froze. “Max? Are you for real?”

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