Sweetheart [On Hold - Resuming 2023]

4. Rude Awakening

His lips brush my neck. A low moan escapes my lips as a shiver runs down my spine. I claw at his back, needing him closer, feeling every ridge of his hard muscles.

He breathes my name as he pushes inside me. "Melody." Deep and low, the way it sounded in his trailer.

"Oh, Asher," I whimper.

"You like that?" he murmurs into my ear.

"Yes," I moan. I love it. His hips pick up speed, stimulating me in the best way. "Yes, Asher. Talk dirty to me."

"Meow."

I gasp, sucking in loose fur. Spluttering and coughing, I flail my arms in search of my phone or light switch. Before I can find a light source, the dark shape blocking my vision recedes. I blink furiously to adjust my eyes to the sunlight poking through slits in my ineffective blinds.

Meanwhile, the orange blob sitting on my chest glares at me in disapproval. I can't blame him, honestly. I just had a sex dream about Asher Vega.

"Just because you're fixed doesn't mean I deserve blue balls," I grumble.

"Meow."

"Are you hungry?" I ask. As a fellow late riser, Mango usually lets me sleep in. On the rare occasion that he wakes up early with an empty bowl, however, he has no qualms meowing until I dispense kibble.

No response, but he hops off the bed and plods out of the bedroom after me. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, I poke my head into the kitchen. Next to the island counter, his porcelain dish is still full of unappetizing chicken-flavored pebbles.

"What'd you have to get me up at seven for?" I sigh.

He smacks my shins with his bottle-brush tail and prances off towards the front door.

"We're indoor cats, buddy," I remind him.

"Meow."

Because curiosity is doomed to kill us both, I peek out the window beside the door. My white porch is empty, save for a wicker bench I've never used.

And a large, pink blob on the second step.

I blink. I rub my eyes, and I blink again. The sight before me doesn't change.

Sitting on my porch is a bouquet of flowers. I swing open the door and, once again, stare in shock. Someone sent me flowers. Magenta snapdragons and yellow freesia in a pale blue vase. So many of them that I need both hands to carry it inside my house.

Who the fuck sent me flowers?

It must be a friendship bouquet. My parents aren't the appreciative, gift-for-no-reason type. The only person in my dating orbit is my ex, Clay, who doesn't have a romantic bone in his otherwise delicious body. After breaking up two years ago, we stayed in contact as friends and, most importantly, fuck buddies. Considering Clay never bought me flowers during our actual relationship, there's no chance he sent me these beauties when things between us are limited to casual hangouts and "you up?" texts.