Page 193 of By His Vow

And with his praise filling the air—and my cat watching—I work him to a fast yet intense release.

47

KINGSTON

Iwake clinging to the edge of the bed with my ass sticking out of the covers.

The fuck?

Opening my eyes, I reach for my cell, killing the alarm before glancing to the other side of the bed.

It’s empty.

“Fuck,” I breathe as memories from the night before come back to me. Although I must admit, some of it is hazy.

I try to shift farther onto the bed, but something stops me.

Looking down, I find that one part of my night was very real.

A curled-up cat is sleeping where my legs should be.

“You have got to be shitting me,” I complain.

As if the thing has been waiting for me to wake up and find it, one eye opens slowly. She glares at me, almost as terrifying with one eye as she is with two, before closing it again as if she’s bored of me already.

“Fucking cat,” I mutter as I slip out of bed and march toward the bathroom.

I glance at the wall where Tatum was last night as I dropped to my knees for her, and then at the toilet where she patched me up and sucked me dry.

Fuck me, that was good.

The end of my night was unexpected. I might have stumbled in here desperate for her, but I was sure we were in for a fight.

I guess I have the stupid cat to thank for that.

Her appearance certainly was a distraction, although I’m not sure if it was a good one or not.

I love fighting with Tatum, and I certainly had a lot of things to say after everything that went down yesterday.

I put myself through the shower and freshen up before selecting a suit and then following the scent of coffee that wafts through the apartment.

It’s not a smell I’m used to experiencing here, but I can’t say it’s one I dislike.

I might want her to think more about what she puts in her body—seriously hypocritical after the amount of whiskey I drank last night, but whatever—but even I can appreciate good coffee when I find it.

The apartment is still in darkness as I descend the stairs, and my brows pinch. Surely she hasn’t left, abandoning Satan in bed with me?

It’s not until I hit the bottom step that I realize she is here. She’s sitting with only her cell screen for light at the kitchen counter with a coffee mug before her.

“Good morning, ba?—”

“Who is she?” she demands before I even get my first sentence out.

“Uh…who is what?” I ask, confused.

Moving closer, I find that Tatum is on Google, and almost all of the photographs she’s scrolling through are of me and a woman.

Some I recognize, many I don’t. Internally, I cringe.