CHAPTER 7

ESTELLE

I took three huge gulps of my wine as I watched a rerun of The Pussy Tamer.

“The house smells like a dumpster,” the distraught woman cried. “We’re going to have to replace all the carpets. I can’t tell you how many puddles I’ve stepped in. We love Mr. Boots, but it’s just not sanitary! Do you know what it’s like to slip a foot into your new Louboutins, only to have a cat turd squished between your toes?” Her voice rose to near shrieking.

“I can’t say that I do,” Emery responded, running a hand over his mouth.

I suspected he was trying not to laugh.

Draining the rest of my glass, I rubbed my thighs together to quell the ache between my legs. Subjecting myself to Emery on TV wasn’t exactly giving myself the distance I needed. But he sure was nice to look at.

It was an episode from the first season, and Emery was helping a cat get over his irrational fear of balls. Not balls as in testicles. Actual balls. You wouldn’t think eliminating all round objects in the house would be that hard, but with three young children, the family had been having a lot of trouble.

Mr. Boots expressed his fear by going to the bathroom anywhere and everywhere.

“We just can’t live like this anymore. We need your help.” She sighed.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Franklin,” Emery assured her. Then he turned his eyes straight into the camera, and it almost felt like he was looking right at me when he said the next words. “I’m going to tame your pussy.”

Equal parts amused and turned on, I rolled my eyes at the cheesy line.

Ever since the show started, I’d been a fan, making sure I watched every episode. The perfect mix of perverted and heart-warming, it was extremely entertaining. I’d even made a drinking game out of it: Every time someone says pussy, take a shot. Or a sip.

Which reminded me, I was due for a refill.

Dizziness hit me when I stood up too fast, and I stumbled my way to the kitchen. I decided to grab the whole bottle because there wasn’t much left anyway.

I got back to the couch in time to see a slow-motion segment where Emery was tying his hair up. Once it was secured at the back of his head, the camera zoomed in on his face and he smirked.

“Here, kitty kitty.”

The hot flashes were back.

Before him, I’d never thought the man bun thing was sexy. But damn.

It was a shame they chopped it off, but I had to admit his new style really worked for him. Also, it gave me a reason to touch him when it got all messed up, and I had no complaints about that.

No wonder cats responded to him the way they did. The man was half-animal himself. During his time on the show, Emery had been hailed a hero. The healer of family feuds. Some had even called him an exorcist.

After seeing what went on behind the scenes, I could say with complete certainty that Emery was the real deal. I had always assumed the show was staged. No one could be that good with animals.

But Emery was.

In just two days, he’d worked his magic. Thanks to him, Cindy was snuggled up at her new home. We still had six more cats to go, but I was confident he could help me find a good match for every one of them.

As Emery started making a game plan for the family—something about positive reinforcement with treats and introducing round-shaped cat toys into everyday playtime—I tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

But every time he said playtime, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about all the ways I wanted to play with him.

Tipping up the wine bottle, I took a swig.

Does he like having his hair pulled?

Another swig.

Why does he have to be so good-looking and nice?

I chugged the rest and set the empty container on the coffee table with a thud.

And why do I have to be so pathetic and horny?

I was a woman in my prime, yet here I was, getting drunk by myself, fantasizing about a man on TV while trying to remember when the last time I’d had an orgasm was.

It’d been a long fucking time.

Hitting pause on the show, I made my way down the hall to my room. I shut the door behind me; I didn’t want any of the cats to witness what I was about to do.

I was severely overdue for a session with my battery-operated-boyfriend, and a few minutes was all I needed.

Sitting on the side of my bed, I opened the second drawer down on my nightstand and took out my vibrator. The pink cock was equivalent to the average penis size, complete with a clit stimulator and three rotational speed settings. Oh yeah, and it glowed in the dark.

We’d been through some hard times together—pun intended. It was everything men weren’t: reliable, always erect, and got the job done every time.

Turning off the lamp, I got comfortable under the covers, held up the glowing rod, and hit the on switch.

And… nothing. No buzzing. No vibrating. No glorious rotating.

“Oh, come on. Don’t fail me now,” I groaned, slapping it a few times. Still nothing. Apparently, it’d been so long since I used it the batteries had gone bad.

Sitting back up, I shuffled through my drawer and found an unopened pack of batteries I kept on hand for this very reason. Because of my uncoordinated fumbling, I ripped the package harder than I’d meant to, and batteries scattered to the floor, rolling in all directions.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

I nearly fell off the bed when I reached down to snatch them up. After grabbing the closest three, I decided not to bother with the rest. It took some serious concentration, but eventually I got the new ones in.

I lay back to try again and… still nothing.

Disgruntled and sexually frustrated, I glared at the useless rubber wand. Maybe it wasn’t the batteries. Maybe my vibrator’s lifespan had come to an end.

So much for being reliable.

I tossed the traitorous device at the open drawer, but I missed by a long shot. Like, I didn’t even hit the nightstand. The vibrator bounced off the closet door with a loud clatter and rolled underneath the bed.

Shit. I didn’t even have the energy to retrieve it. I fell back onto the pillows and let out a huff.

What was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t use my own hands—that had never worked for me. It was like trying to tickle yourself. Not possible.

I was more turned on than I’d ever been in my life and the one thing I could count on had let me down. I wanted to weep at the injustice of it all.

The ache between my legs made me feel irrational and desperate.

Throb. Throb. Throb.

Emery was such a gentleman. So fucking wholesome. Level-headed. And it wasn’t an act—that was just him.

Ache. Ache. Ache.

Desperation coursed through me. I wanted to get under his skin, to make him lose his cool.

Want. Want. Want.

What the hell was in that wine?

I spied a rectangular piece of paper on my dresser. Ambling over to it with unsteady footsteps, I picked up the business card, remembering the way Emery had emphasized the fact that he was putting his personal number on the back.

I’d never had a fuck-buddy before, but I could make an exception.

Just this once.

Okay, maybe not just once. Maybe, like, ten times. A dozen, tops. That would definitely be enough to get Emery out of my system.

I went back out to the couch and as I plopped down onto the cushion, I looked around my feline-filled living room.

The wine bottle had been knocked to the floor. Carol swatted at it, causing it to spin in a circle. She got spooked when it clanked against the leg of the coffee table, and she ran into the kitchen.

One set of boots sat next to my door. One jacket hung from the hook on the wall. My singular plastic glass mocked me.

I could blame my reclusive ways on the cats all I wanted, but honestly, my social life had been nonexistent long before I adopted Alice.

What happened to me? I used to be fun.

Picking up my cell phone in one hand and holding the business card in the other, I made an impulsive, alcohol-induced decision. My uncoordinated fingers tapped over the number keys.

The other end of the line rang twice, then a deep voice came through the phone. “Hello?”

Suddenly, I couldn’t find the words. There were no words. What happened to my words?

I heard Emery clear his throat. “Heavy breathing is pretty much the most unoriginal prank call ever,” he deadpanned. “Just saying, you might want to up your game next time.”

“Wh-what?” I stammered.

“Estelle?” he asked, immediately sounding concerned.

“Um, yeah.” I said, taken aback. “How did you know it was me?”

“I, ah, I recognized your voice when you spoke just now. That’s not creepy, is it?”

I huffed out a laugh. “Surprising, but not creepy.”

“What’s wrong?”

My smile faded, his question reminding me of why I’d called in the first place. Using the code words on the back of the business card, I cringed at what I was about to say next.

“I have a pussy emergency.”