It wasn't my fault. It was the damned cat. This is the story of how one little diabolical bit of fluff can ruin a man's sex life.

* * * *

"Angel, please… God, please…"

She wiggled out from under me like she was made of liquid, working the buttons on her blouse in the opposite direction. I watched with regret as she swiftly secured all the hard-earned territory it had taken me twice the time to uncover.

"What if your dad comes home?" she whispered, looking up at me from under her straight blonde bangs and hugging her arms under her breasts as if she were cold. I groaned as the full tops of her tits pressed upward and out, her nipples poking against her blouse. My cock strained against denim and I shifted my hips so she couldn't possibly ignore how hard I was against her thigh.

"I told you," I murmured, sliding my hand over the thin material and tweaking her nipple. She shuddered against me when I did that, her eyes half-closing in pleasure.

"He's working late. He won't be home for hours."

"Mark, no," she whispered as I worked the buttons again, trying to make up some of the ground I'd already lost. "Let's go…"

Her mouth was saying no, but her body was saying yes and she moaned as I tongued her nipple right through her shirt and bra, flicking it again and again with my tongue. Her fingers ran through my hair, gripping my head as she wiggled and maneuvered herself so that the heat between her legs was riding against my denim-clad thigh. God, she really loved it, no matter what she kept saying.

"Please," she whispered, her thighs like a vise grip around mine as she arched her back, my mouth searching past the soft V of her blouse, over the pale mound of her breast, seeking the hard pink center. "Oh God, Mark… please…"