Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
She’s soft and warm and absolutely perfect. I want to sleep with her in my arms every single night for the rest of my life. I tuck Elsie in tight against my chest and drift back off. When I finally open my eyes again, it’s to the soft glow of morning light and the unmistakable sound of a cat screaming bloody murder outside the bedroom door.
“Fucking hell,” I groan, not ready to let go of my girl, but Mr. Snugglebutt is singing the song of his people at the top of his lungs. The cat’s yowling and scratching like he’s about to claw through solid wood just to get to us. Elsie doesn’t even stir. She’s curled up so perfectly in my arms, looking like she’s never been more relaxed in her life.
I stare at the ceiling, grinning like a fool. This is my life now. Me, my girl, and the world’s most psychotic cat demanding breakfast at six fucking a.m.
Absolutely goddamn perfect.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELSIE
My brain is floating in the soft, melty fog of sleep. Drifting. Weightless. Warm all over.
Scratch that. Not all over. I’m pinned.
Completely, totally, gloriously pinned.
There’s a furnace plastered against my back—muscles, stubble, big hands, all Beckett Hot, all six-foot-something of him wrapped around me like I’m a precious object that might try to escape. I’m not escaping. Not even a little bit. If I could, I’d submit a formal request for this to be my life, every single morning.
My cheek is squished against his solid bicep. My hands are caught in the tangle of sheets and one of his gigantic arms. He’s basically using me as a human teddy bear. I should mind. I do not. My legs are draped over his, tangled in warmth, the sheets kicked down so we’re a boneless heap of skin and satisfaction. His breath ruffles my hair in slow, sleepy bursts. With each exhale, his chest expands against my back—steady, safe, perfect.
Then the world’s loudest banshee lets loose in the small apartment.
It takes my brain a second to process. The shrieking? Not in my dream.
Mr. Snugglebutt, feline dictator, is wailing outside my door like someone’s trying to murder him with a spoon.
Beckett groans behind me. “What the fuck was that?”
Another yowl, louder this time, like a foghorn mixed with a malfunctioning police siren. The walls shake. The furniture trembles. My will to live flickers.
I groan and pry open one eye. “Mr. Snugglebutt is the worst alarm clock ever.”
Beckett’s chest starts rumbling, low and deep, vibrating straight through me. For a second, I think he’s still asleep and growling at the interruption. But he’s laughing. Not just a tiny snicker, either. He’s laughing so hard I can feel his abs flex against my back.
I try to wiggle away, but he just drags me closer, his chin tucking into the curve of my neck. “He’s a loud little shit.”
The next yowl is so overdramatic.
I sigh. All traces of sleep are gone. “That’s Mr. Snugglebutt’s patented ‘you’re a failure of a mother, feed me or perish’ noise.”
“Jesus,” Beckett rasps in my ear, “I knew cats were assholes, but yours is taking it to a new level.”
“He’s gifted,” I mumble, but I don’t move. Not yet. I’m greedy. I want to enjoy every last second of this—Beckett’s hand splayed over my stomach, his legs locking me down, his morning wood pressed against my thigh, like a very insistent roll call.
Beckett shifts, his nose nudging into my hairline. “Ignore it. Cat can wait. I’m busy.”
He rolls me fully onto my back and pins me with that green-eyed stare, barely awake and already so hot it’s almost unfair. His hand slides up my ribcage, thumb tracing lazy circles over my bare skin. He’s not subtle. “Morning.”
I grin, lips twitching. “Morning.” My voice is sleep-rough and sexier than I remembered.
He sweeps his hand down, fingers tracing a lazy path over the curve of my hip, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His palm is rough with calluses but impossibly gentle against my sleep-warmed skin. "Sleep okay?"
"Like the dead," I confess, stretching like a cat under his touch. "You?"
"Best fucking sleep I've had in years," he mutters, voice still gravelly with morning, his eyes half-lidded and honest.
My cheeks flush hot, and I can feel the pink spreading down my neck as his thumb draws small circles just above my hipbone. Before I can muster a witty comeback, the cat cranks it up to eleven.
This time, the noise is so dramatic you’d think I locked him out for a week, not seven hours.
Beckett gives me a mock-glare. “He’s fucking persistent.”
“You have no idea.” I push up on my elbows, ruffling my hair and blinking the sleep from my eyes. My limbs are jelly, my whole body languid and loose from last night’s adventures. I feel fantastic. Like, everything is freaking perfect.