Page 77 of King of Hollywood

Then suddenly, he was gone.

I blinked my eyes open, and Felix was on the opposite side of the couch. His eyes were wide. His lips were pressed into a flat line. And he was staring at my throat like it was taunting him. His throat bobbed, and I panted, staring at him with mirrored hunger.

From a safe distance, Felix’s gaze trailed over my body appreciatively. His hands flexed into fists. When I glanced from his broad shoulders, down his supple chest, to his tiny little waist, I groaned.

It wasn’t fair.

The bones in my hands practically creaked as I squeezed them into fists, struggling to control myself. Struggling not to toss my laptop to the floor and shove him into the leather, inexperience be damned.

“Let’s cool down, yeah?” Felix said, voice rough. There was a noticeable bulge in his pants, and I ached. I ached, and ached, and ached.

I wanted to yank his pants off and taste him.

Wanted to lick up the salt and cum, and make him sob.

“Marshall,” Felix’s voice was a gravelly soft warning. “My eyes are up here.”

“I know.” I jolted, surprised by how low my own voice had gotten. I hardly recognized it. It was like the beast inside me had risen to the surface and taken over entirely.

I gritted my teeth, sucking in a steadying breath.

It was difficult, but I managed to tear my eyes away from Felix’s cock. My gaze dragged upward, ravenously taking in every gorgeous, provocative inch of his tiny, compact body.

“You make it so difficult to be a gentleman,” Felix said, his lovely, pointy teeth flashing. “And I already have a hard enough time not losing control when you’re here.”

I knew what he meant, so I didn’t push.

My own control was hanging by a thread even thinner than the yarn he’d been using earlier.

Doing my best not to defile him with my gaze anymore, I forced my eyes away, looking for something distracting. My gaze fell on the cats again—and blearily, I tried to refocus.

“Is Tiffany a…calico?” I asked, curious. I had no idea if “calico” was even a breed. Only that I’d heard the name here and there over the years, and was desperate to think about anything other than fucking Felix into the couch. When I twisted back to look at him, Felix shook his head. He stretched his legs out, his hats hung up on the wall on his side of the couch. He hadn’t even put one on today. Not once.

Felix’s eyes were soft as he reached a hand out. The cat wandered closer, Tiffany’s lovely—awful, I mean, awful—head pushing into his palm. “Tortoiseshell actually.”

“Tortoiseshell,” I repeated, storing that information for later.

I shut my laptop, figuring it was time for me to head home.

Mostly because my cock would not go down—and I was not ready to cross that line yet. Or embarrass myself further by pointing my dick at Felix for the rest of the night. Besides…it was getting late.

I hadn’t gotten to tongue him—or touch his ass.

But he’d certainly tongued me.

So I was calling the night a win.

Later, which was apparently the next day, when I was Googling cats and how to care for them—I had Tiffany’s picture up on my phone for inspiration. Harold walked by, because of course he did—it was Thursday. He peeked over my shoulder at the screen, head cocked to the side.

“Ah, a calico,” he hummed, leaning over my shoulder to get a better look. “Cute.”

“Tortoiseshell, you bitch.” I sniffed.

Harold laughed, slapping my back affectionately. “This the famous cat?”

“One of them.” Flipping through the forty or so pictures I’d taken last night for research, I showed him a picture of Dolly.

Harold looked at me with a peculiar expression, but I didn’t notice.