The Biker's Rules
I ask the cat sprawled on my chest like he pays rent.
“Mew,” Doom agrees solemnly.
“And talking to a cat is manly?” Mel’s voice floats in from the doorway, amused and wickedly soft.
I glance up.
She’s leaning against the bathroom doorframe, wearing absolutely nothing but smooth skin and a smile that promises chaos.
“Hey,” I say defensively, scratching Doom’s head, “he started it.”
She chuckles. “And it doesn’t threaten your manhood?”
I look down. For the record, I’m sporting a boner for the history books, lifting the sheet.