Page 35 of Love Me Tomorrow

Or maybe it’s less thathe’sescaped it and more that Owen—gorgeously stoic Owen—is hopping like a can-can dancer on speed. In fascinated horror, I watch as the “inked god,” as the media has dubbed him, whirls around with his right leg extended and shaking.

Pablo hisses, his little triangle ears twitching in what I can’t help but feel is delight in discovering a worthy opponent, and climbs higher, from calf to knee and from knee to thigh. He sinks his talons into Owen’s leg while his tail swishes in the air.

Oh. God.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” I wave my arms frantically, hoping to distract him. “Come to Momma.”

Owen reaches for Pablo’s underbelly. “He’syours?” he asks, sounding appalled.

There’s little point in lying. “I rescued him.”

“How the hell did America’s sweetheart end up with the antichrist?”

As if personally offended by the insult, Pablo hisses again and—

Oh, no.

His sharp claws inch upward, leaving Owen’s thigh for a more northern region. The apex of his thighs. The firm bulge behind the soft fabric of his slacks. The reason behind women’s orgasms everywhere.

I’m not sure which one of us reacts faster.

One minute I’m diving forward like a baseball player sliding onto home base, my hand outstretched to yank Pablo off before he causes major damage, and in the next, my cat is screeching as he flails through the air in a blur of somersaulting limbs.

Pablo, being Pablo, lands with all the grace of a feline who has nine lives.

I, on the other hand, do not.

I plow straight into Owen, the full weight of my forward momentum hitting him in the solar plexus. He collapses like a folded accordion, arms thrown out, legs sprawling. His pained grunt echoes in my ears as I drop like a sack of potatoes atop him, my face pressed against warm, rock-hard flesh, and my eyes squeezed closed.

Ba-dum.

The rigid muscles beneath my cheek go concave when Owen rasps, “I’ll be honest, I’ve thought about you jumping my bones hundreds of times and this . . . this is not how I imagined the moment going down.”

My mouth goes dry at the explicit visual springing to mind. I can only picture us now: Owen’s big body splayed out like a Prince of Darkness Ken doll; my own tossed over his, hands planted on the floor, legs twisted up with his legs, cheek resting on his . . . on hiswhat?

Seeking a distraction from the fact that it isverypossible my mouth could be inches from his belt, I demand, weakly, “Did you just throw my cat?”

“No.”

I crack one eye open.

Oh, thank God.

No leather belt in sight. Only a very inked sternum and a view of the holy grail: Owen Harvey’s abdomen. There are ridges for days, cut and sharply defined, and jeez, is that atattoojust above his waistband? Short of embarrassing myself by pinning him down—you know, more than I already have—so I can get a closer look, I let out a fake,I’m-so-chilllaugh that sounds slightly more likeI-have-lost-my-damn-mind-please-forgive-me. “Thank you. He doesn’t really like men, which is sort of a problem, but he really is sweet when you get beneath all that ferocious—”

“I hurled him.”

Head jerking up, my gaze climbs Owen’s mountain of a chest and the thick column of his inked throat. “Youhurledhim?”

Owen tips his head to the right, clearly seeking out Pablo. “Figured he had at least one life left.”

“That is . . . that is . . .”

The door swings open and Georgie pokes her head in, the way she always does when she’s bored at the front desk and wanting to chat. I see the moment when she glances from the desk to the bookcase before, brows knitting, she drops her attention to the floor.

Tous.

I scramble to my knees, only to hear Owen wheeze when my elbow accidentally makes contact with . . . with . . . Oh, boy.

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