Page 9 of Sticky for You

I’m wilting, can’t you see without you I’m not alive…

Sing the chorus with me.

Born to be alive.

We were born to be mated…

My lips trembled as I tried to stay mad at him… he was making it very hard.

Your cock? Is that what I’m making hard?

Giddy excitement came with a repeat of the song, and somehow he was projecting the music. How the heck he was doing that, I was at a total loss as my head swam with 70s disco music along with the camp gay Welsh voice he’d used the day before.

He was too much.

Hiding out was for the best. No one asked to be stalked by bad disco. I know I didn’t.

Day two post the monster incident.

It’s party time, pretty lion.

Those words rang through my brain, waking me from the most erotic dream where I was…

For the love of rhubarb, I was losing my shit.

You love me? The quivering excitement through our link was too much.

Oh, dear God. I’m rhubarb obsessed.

Just the way it should be, my alpha.

And there was more wiggling in my head. How did he do that?

Showering in record time, I tried to shut Tim out, but my mate was persistent. Dressing in baggy clothes to hide what was happening in my pants was essential, when I’d no control over my dick when the singing started.

I was doomed.

Doomed!

Come now. I’m sure today you’ll see my stalk in all its magnificence.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I grunted and nodded at Gordon, who was sitting at the table when the dreadful singing started in the same gay Welsh accent.

King of lions, mate of rhubarb. Voice of c-r-u-m-b-l-e. hear my song. Louder than the thunder, make you love the custard glory. Hail, hail Lion of rhubarb, let the Lion roar! Roar! Let the lion roar.

“Why aren’t you answering me? Are you ignoring me?” said Gordon, sounding utterly miffed.

I glanced over my shoulder, staring blankly at Gordon, confirming my suspicion he was miffed. “I’m not.”

He arched one perfectly plucked brow. “What did I say then?”

I wracked my brain, coming up empty except for Tim. I groaned and walked to the kitchen table where Gordon had spread out his paints, as usual covering the entire surface, meaning no one could use it for breakfast. “Sorry… just got a lot going on in my head.”

Not a lot, just a singing stalk of rhubarb!

Two days… and nights of rhubarb karaoke. How long could he keep this up for? How long could I survive?

As long as it takes for you to see that I wasn’t being mean calling you a monster.

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