Page 69 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Go away,” I whine, not daring to look up at him. My forehead presses against the cool porcelain. “I don't want you to see me like this. It's disgusting.”

Logan and I have been navigating this undefined relationship for quite a while now. But this? This crosses into terrifying territory. Some boundaries aren't meant to be broken,and watching someone throwing up as if trying to imitate the girl fromThe Exorcistis definitely one of them.

“I don't want you to see me puking, Logan! Go away!” There are certain lines you don't cross when you're in relationship limbo, and this ranks at the top of that list.

A deep chuckle rumbles behind me. Jerk.

“You do realize I'm a doctor, Emily?” His voice carries that infuriating calm that makes me want to strangle him if only I had the strength to stand.

“A vet.” I moan, resting my burning cheek against the merciful coolness of the toilet seat. Hygiene be damned. “And I'm not an animal.”

The floorboards creak as he kneels behind me.

“Wrong,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear, sending an absurd shiver through my disaster of a body. “You're my kitten.”

He gathers my hair, pulling it away from my face with the same gentle precision I've watched him use on trembling animals at the clinic.

A lump forms in my throat, and I honestly can't tell if it's because I'm about to puke again or because, little by little, I'm becoming genuinely attached to Logan Price. The realization hits harder than the nausea.

“I think I'm okay now,” I rasp. “I just need a shower.”

What I really need is to wash away this vulnerability, this rawness that has nothing to do with my physical state and everything to do with the tenderness in his touch.

“Okay.” His lips press briefly against my head. He rises, and I look up to see him walking toward the shower and turning on the hot water.

The only thing he's wearing is a pair of tight black boxer briefs that cling to his perfectly sculpted ass.

I push myself up on wobbling legs. My body's staging a full-scale rebellion, and Logan, like the superhero he pretends not to be, instantly materializes at my side. His arm circles my waist, supporting me without apparent effort. I let him guide me to the sink, where I grab my toothbrush, desperate to scour away the acidic aftertaste of humiliation and sickness.

“Come here. I'll help you shower,” he says when I finish. His voice drops lower, not suggestive but tender. A whole flock of butterflies erupts in my stomach, making me momentarily fear another bout of nausea.

I smile despite myself and take his hand, surrendering to the inevitable. He guides me to the shower and helps me pull off the oversized T-shirt I sleep in. His fingers graze my shoulder, then he slides his hand down to the small of my back and pushes me gently under the stream of warm water.

The heat cascades over my skin, washing away the clammy residue of sickness. I watch through the rising steam as he pulls off his boxer briefs before joining me. His body is as familiar to me now as my own, yet still capable of taking my breath away. His cock stands proud, jutting from the nest of dark blond curls, but the way he touches me isn't sexual at all. There's a carefulness to his movements, a deliberate restraint that makes me feel both cherished and slightly disappointed.

He takes the cap off the shampoo bottle and pours a little into his hands. “Turn around.”

I pivot, and his hands sink into my hair, working against my scalp in hypnotic circles. My eyes drift closed as he rubs small circles against my temples, somehow knowing exactly how to ease the lingering headache.

“That's nice.” I sigh, tilting my head back into his touch. I can't see his face, but I know he's smiling. I'm getting dangerously used to these quiet moments of intimacy that aren'tsupposed to mean anything but somehow feel like they mean everything.

When he's finally satisfied that I'm clean, he turns off the water, grabs a big, soft towel from the heated rack, and begins to rub it over my body. The plush cotton feels heavenly against my skin but not nearly as good as the occasional brush of his fingers as he carefully dries me.

“You know, you shouldn't spoil me this way,” I tease him, my voice still raspy. “I could get used to it.” What I don't say is that I already am, that these small acts of tenderness are more addictive than I ever imagined they could be.

“Maybe I like spoiling you.” There's no sarcasm in his voice. “Why don't you stay home today? I can handle the clinic by myself, and you can rest and focus on getting better.”

For a moment, I consider it. The thought of crawling back into his enormous bed, surrounded by sheets that smell like him, like us, is tempting. But there's also something frightening about how domestic this all feels, how easily we've fallen into caring for each other when we're supposed to keep things casual.

“I don't feel bad now,” I lie, ignoring the lingering queasiness in my stomach and the slight dizziness that comes when I move too quickly. “It was probably the Chinese takeout we ate last night.” Even as I say it, a whisper of suspicion curls through the back of my mind, a possibility I refuse to consider.

“Either that or the amount you ate,” he says.

“Hey!” I give him a playful punch on the shoulder. I stride to the closet, searching for something to wear that might help me feel like a normal, professional Emily rather than a vulnerable, possibly-falling-for-my-casual-fling Emily. “I don't eat that much!”

“It's not a bad thing,” he says, pulling on dark slacks. “Lots of people would love to have the body you have and continue to eat as much as they want.”

“Tell that to my jeans,” I mutter, struggling with the zipper on my favorite pair, which seem to have narrowed overnight. The denim strains across my hips, refusing to close properly. Usually, I would blame the dryer for their tightness, but dammit all, Logan's right. I've been eating a ton lately. My appetite's been insatiable, though not just for food. Oh well, it just means I'll have to start working out with him more.

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