Page 9 of CurVy Forever
I look at my feet and then attire. My slippers and my silk night-shirt and shorts will hopefully make them feel intrusive.
Ready. I rub my cheeks and swing open the door, finding a postman with a…
What the actual fuck?
“Morning, Miss,” he says brightly. “We have a delivery for a Valentina Relli. Is that you?”
Words elude me as I stare at the item on the porch; a silvery dog cage large enough for a Rottweiler or a Doberman—or a human. There is a bow on it.
Of course there is.
I blink, and the man clears his throat. “Miss?”
“Yes.” I nod, swallowing over the lump of passion wedged in my throat. “That’s mine, I mean, that’s my name.”
Signing for the cage, I try not to smile, but my traitorous lips want to embrace this message.
The man leaves me on the porch.
Circling the cage, I clutch my hips and study the lavish enclosure. The bow is pink and large, carefully tied to the top and displayed like a flower, the ribbony tale long enough to cover the entire roof.
I reach out and touch the silk. Then I see a small note tucked beneath the fabric. Warmth and discomfort stir through me, filling my chest. I pull the note away from the metal roof and open it to typed words.
Still tucking you in, Pup.
Get comfortable.
D
I beam.
Bastard.
Couldn’t he just send fucking flowers? Like a normal person—but then, we’re not a normal couple… Are we a couple? Not a normal… collective… Ugh. We’re not normal!
We are a throuple…
I don’t know how to feel. Maybe I’m meant to feel a sense of dread, a shiver of threat, a deeply unsettling weight, but my heart is warm and airy.
My hands shake.
The cage is an answer to my what-ifs…
To the ones that have been festering in me since Donnie left. What-if the connection I felt wasn’t real, a manifestation of my need to please and be liked? What-if he’s using me to protect Tyler until he doesn’t need me anymore, casting me aside? What-if I don’t embrace this thing, this pull between the three of us? What-if I fuck it up?
God, I don’t want to wake up one day, alone, old, bored out of my mind, and realise the Vaughn brothers are my regretful what-if…
The cage tries to answer that.
Yeah, it’s a talkative cage.
Now, to get it inside. I’m fumbling with where to grab it and how to lift it when I hear, “He’s never been subtle.”
The mysterious voice strokes me, from the tips of my ears to the points of my toes, with its smooth, rich quality; a lasting deep timbre that mists my skin in sweat.
Slowly, I straighten and turn to face the man with the commanding tone, anticipating another officer. This will be hard to explain to them; I’ll have to get a dog. And I don’t want a dog right now.
“Can I help—” My words become heavy on my tongue when I see Dexter Vaughn strolling up the driveway in a suit that seamlessly moves with his form, displaying his agile gait and showcasing the muscles in his thighs, the reach of his broad shoulders, the—