The Biker's Rules
I ditch the shirt and socks and slide naked under the covers, sprawling back like a king who’s been temporarily banished from his throne.
“Mew.”
A puffed-up black furball is glaring at me from the pillow, green eyes full of judgment and betrayal.
“Sorry, pal,” I mutter, scooping Doom up and tucking him against my chest. I flip on the TV.
Animal Planet.
And as if sitting here rock-hard, waiting for a woman to shave her legs, clearly isn’t cruel enough on its own, they show the mating ritual of … cats.
Doom sits upright, suddenly very invested, following every word the narrator is saying.