Page 20 of Love to Loathe Him

No doubt, he’d be an absolute animal in the sack, just manhandling me roughly against the nearest photocopier. He must have a huge cock too; he looks the type with his prominent Adam’s apple.

Oh . . . oh yes, that’s good. I ramp up the vibration speed.

“Gemma,” Fantasy Liam grunts. “You feel so—”

“Meow!” comes the indignant cry from behind the living room door, followed by incessant scratching. Oh, for fuck’s sake, she can’t even let me have five minutes of me-time without pitching a fit.

“Give me a minute!” I shout at her, feeling a twinge of guilt.

Oh yes, right there. Stars are flashing behind my eyelids.

The scratching continues unabated. Ugh, it’s no use, she’s not going to let this go.

With a defeated groan, I pry myself off the sofa, vibrator still awkwardly tenting my underwear, and shuffle over to let the furry cockblocker in. Not finishing, or just caving and letting her in—I’m damned either way at this point.

Winnie eyes me in disgust as she struts into the living room. I can practically hear her thinking “I always knew you were a pervert, but this is a new low.”

I waddle my way back to the couch, my vibrator still buzzing away in my underwear, and try to wrap this up quickly.

I zoom in on McLaren’s corporate headshot, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes it feel like he’s sitting in his multimillion-pound penthouse apartment—the one that definitely has a view of the Thames and probably a sex dungeon—watching and knowing exactly what I’m doing right now.

Winnie jumps up onto the coffee table right beside my laptop, her eyes fused to mine. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Talk about performance anxiety.

But I’m too far gone at this point to stop. I’m committed now, I’ve reached the point of no return. I feel abysmal about it, but she’s the one who demanded to be let in. This is on her fluffy head.

Still, this is bad.

Stop it, Gemma. Bad Gemma. Very bad Gemma.

I’m literally going to town on myself in front of my own cat. Is this considered some form of pet abuse?

I wonder what’s going through Winnie’s head as she watches me, her eyes wide and unblinking. She probably thinks I’m having a kind of seizure.

But . . . ohhhh yes, right there.

I’m really picking up steam now, my hips bucking against my vibrator. The Victorian molding on the ceiling blurs and distorts before my eyes, transforming into a vast, blazing galaxy of stars.

I can practically smell McLaren’s manly cologne surrounding me. He’s right here on this sofa, pinning me down with the delicious weight of his powerful thighs. The scratch of his stubbled jaw grazing along my arm is visceral, electrifying.

Wait, what? Along myarm?

I open my eyes and nearly scream. Winnie is brushing up against that very arm, her rough tongue lapping at my skin like she’s trying to groom me.

“Can you not touch me right now?” I pant out breathily. “A little privacy here would be appreciated.” Winnie just purrs, rubbing her face against my elbow like she’s trying to get in on the action.

I’m so close, teetering right on the edge of sweet release. Just a little more, just a little—

“GROSS!” I yelp, jerking upright, the vibrator still buzzing angrily against my clit.

My nose instinctively scrunches in utter disgust. I think I’m going to be sick. The smell is so pungent it cuts right through the haze of my arousal.

I glare daggers at the furry offender. “Did you justfart? That is not sexy at all, you brat!”

Cat farts are the worst. And Iknowshe did this on purpose, too. This was a calculated attack. She’s probably been holding this one in all day, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“Thanks very much,” I growl at her, my arousal shriveling up. “Really appreciate the mood killer there.”