Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [62]
The cat squealed, bringing back sanity. Every muscle tensed within Jago as he reined in his out-of-control emotions. His mind swam, dizzy from wanting her, as he brushed his lips once more over hers. Asha nearly caused him to come undone as she opened her mouth, giving him access to her warmth. Leaning down, he scooped her and the cat into his arms and then carried them to the bed.
Setting her down, he pondered where the bloody hell all this chivalrous nature came from. “Tonight, I just want to be near you—make sure you are all right.”
The cat stomped happily across the duvet, long claws puncturing the material. The silly beast was smiling again.
“I’m glad one of us has something to smile about,” Jago muttered.
Jago wasn’t getting much sleep.
Just as his body stopped going off like an Asha Geiger Counter and he’d start to doze, she’d shift in her sleep, bump some sexy body part up against him and it’d cause his groin to stir to life with an insistent ache. This time she rolled when he was on his side, shoving that cute little tush up against his loins. To make matters worse, as he was trying to keep from gritting his teeth until they cracked, the blasted cat stalked up his body and decided to perch on his hip. As long as Jago kept his eyes open, the bloody feline stared at him, smiling. Giving up, he pulled the sheet over his head and pretended to sleep.
After several minutes, the animal shifted and lay down, still on his hip and thigh. While he knew the thing didn’t weigh fifty pounds, it sure felt like it. The longer they both remained in that position the heavier he became.
He considered dumping the pest, but he’d have to move to do that and he rather liked lying spooned against Asha. It would be snug, cuddling like this on snowy winter nights. The vision was easy to conjure with the wind still blowing outside. Some sort of shrubbery was at the back of the bungalows; the breeze forced the small limbs to scratch at the bedroom window. In his mind snow howled, piling up deep, stranding Asha with him—and the cat—for days. Maybe at Christmastime.
He smiled at the dream. Nearly echoing his mood, the cat noisily purred. Absently, Jago reached out his hand and patted the pussycat’s head, oddly finding comfort in ruffling the animal’s fur. Maybe having a kitty was a good thing.
A discordant note filtered through his dreams, causing him to awaken. He listened, trying to pinpoint what had pulled him away from something beside chestnuts roasting before an open fire. There was nothing. Nothing but the scratching of the bushes against the glass. Not a sound he heard normally, still the winds had been going on for several hours. Why did the scraping bother him now?
Almost holding his breath, he lay there listening. The refrigerator in the kitchen kicked off, so the silence was stronger. Nothing but the non-rhythmic scraping of the bushes. Scratch . . . scratch . . . scratch. Feeling as if he was listening for something that wasn’t there, he sighed and started to relax again. He smiled in the darkness. Maybe if he was lucky, sexy Asha would wake up horny and want to have her wicked way with his body.
The dissonant noise came again. And it wasn’t just his mind conjuring the sounds; the kitty heard. He’d stopped purring and his head turned toward the window, ears alert. What finally convinced Jago something was not right: the cat’s ears laid back and he growled lowly, similar to a dog.
Carefully pushing the cat off his leg, Jago slid from under the sheet and out of the bed. Trying not to disturb the sleeping Asha, he moved in silent steps to the window. His instinct was to yank the shutters wide and confront whatever dared intrude upon his domain. Instead, being his usual careful self, he tried to peek through the cracks of one panel. The scraping stopped. It left him holding his breath and waiting for the noise to come again. He stood frozen for a minute, then decided to beard the devil and snapped open the louvers.
The gray light of dawn greeted him. His eyes strained, trying to