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Satisfaction Guaranteed (Always Satisfied #1)
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1732575568 (ISBN13: 9781732575561)
Look, she started it.
She issued me a challenge I couldn’t back down from. Make her purr like no man has done before.
Fine, she’s my business partner’s daughter. All right, I’m also working in the same damn practice with her. Yes, she happens to be my ex-fling. But that was seven years ago, and it was barely a week-long thing.
Except, Sloane is still the one I can’t stop thinking of — brilliant, sexy, captivating Sloane. Maybe a week of taking her to new heights will get her out of my head.
So what if we spend a few nights on the town too? So what if I romance her across Manhattan? It’s all in the name of scientific pursuit of more magnificent Os.
Until the rules change…
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Dude-bros will tell you the pinnacle of male sexual prowess is to make a woman meow.
I will tell you, that’s a dumbass metaphor.
Literal, figurative, it’s complete bullshit.
Cats meow when they’re hurt, hungry, or just plain chatty. A feline might be stressed, pissed, or simply want you to open the goddamn bedroom door at night.
So, the cat’s meow is a myth. I should know.
But the purr? The magical, mysterious, wondrous purr? The aural indication of pussycat pleasure? That’s the mission impossible a man ought to be making come to life. Cats purr for a couple reasons, but the most common one is to show they’re satisfied.
That’s a man’s job, and that’s why I don’t play small stakes kitty-cat games. No cat’s meows, no pajamas either. My one goal when I get a woman between the sheets is to make her so immensely pleased that she purrs.
I’m not an over-and-out type of guy. There’s no one-and-done for me. I’m a believer in delivering satisfaction in every way, in and out of the bedroom.
That’s exactly what I want to do with a certain someone.
Trouble is, that someone is most definitely off-limits, so it’s time to put a leash on this dog.
But then I learn something wildly unexpected about her, and there’s no way I can turn away from that kind of challenge.
She’s gorgeous. An absolute stunner, with captivating green eyes, high cheekbones, and strong legs. Her silky black hair is long and luxurious. She stretches, showing off her nubile body.
I can’t keep my eyes off her.
Or my hands, for that matter.
I run a palm down her back, and she arches against me.
“Doesn’t she seem rather . . . lethargic?” her mistress asks, concern etched in her eyes. I peer closely at the little lady in question.
Those whiskers. That tail. “Sabrina’s mood seems fine. Her heart rate is perfect. Her fur looks great. I see one very healthy pussycat. Why do you think she’s lethargic, Lydia?” I ask as the silky black feline swishes her tail back and forth, rubbing against my hand on the exam table.
Lydia fiddles with a necklace that dangles between her breasts. “She’s not playing with her toys much.”
“Does she normally like to play with toys?”
Lydia drags a hand down her chest. “Oh, she enjoys toys so very much.”
Dammit. I walked right into that one.
But I’m practiced in the art of deadpan deflection. “Well, that would indicate she doesn’t need my services. She seems full of energy here. Is there something else going on at home with her that I should be concerned about?”
Lydia doesn’t look at the kitty. She flicks her chestnut hair off her shoulder, her eyes pinned on me, ignoring the vet tech in the room completely. “She seems to need a little more attention. I feel like that’s what she’s telling me.”
I maintain my completely-unaware-of-her-double-meaning routine. “But you give her lots of attention?”
“I do, but it’s solo, Doctor Goodman. I think she wants it from others, if you know what I mean.”
Yep, I don’t need to be Inspector Poirot to crack the mystery of that case. I figured it out the instant Lydia prowled into the exam room with a cat who is as fit as an Olympic athlete.
I slide around her efforts with a standard vet answer: “Cats are fickle. Some want attention. Some are fine without it.” Sabrina rubs her head against my hand, cranking up the volume as she marks me. But hey, she’s allowed to. Also, cats like me. Dogs like me. I am an absolute animal magnet, and the feeling’s quite mutual.
“See? She likes you. She might want affection from you . . .” Lydia’s eyes take a long, lingering stroll up and down my body.
Time for the full-scale oblivion shield. There’s a fine line between playing dumb and looking stupid, and as a veterinarian, I can’t afford to look bad in front of clients. But as a man, I definitely need to pull off the clueless-to-her-advances act with a particular kind of balance and finesse.
I ask Jonathan, the tech, to hand me a thermometer.
“Of course, Doctor Goodman,” he says, hamming it up as if it’s his utter delight to deliver the device.
Meeting Lydia’s gaze, I brandish the thermometer with a grin. “Sabrina might not be so keen on me after this.”
This is the moment when Lydia will back down, I’m sure. They nearly all do when the mercury comes out.
Instead, Lydia emits a sort of coo, like a songbird. “Oh, I bet she’d love that. I’m up for . . . I mean, she’s up for anything.”
Jonathan snickers, and I sigh. I focus solely on the cat, rather than on this cat-and-mouse game of cat-and-woman sublimation. Fortunately, Sabrina’s just fine, and I tell Lydia so when I’m through with the exam. I snap off my gloves, wash my hands, and tell her to keep an eye on her feline. “If anything changes, let us know.”