I will never admit it, but I like the way he smells. He's probably not aware of it, though, being a stupid cat. He has a scent all his own.
I can always smell it – after a fight, a bath, or a meal. It's a part of him, just as much a part of him as his hot temper and orange hair. I've thought about it, but I still can't describe his scent exactly. The closest I can come to is cinnamon – sharp and strong, with an undercurrent of sweetness.
I turn over in bed to face him. My movement awakens him as I lightly kick away the tangled sheets. He stirs next to me, opening his crimson eyes to glare half-heartedly at me.
"Damn rat", he says hoarsely, his voice raw.
"Stupid cat," I murmur softly, leaning over to speak right into his ear.
He shivers a little, and I watch the muscles ripple down his back. He blushes, grumbles – and then shifts closer.
I press my lips to his forehead, and brush away his sweaty bangs. He squirms and yawns a bit before curling up against me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist and tucking his head underneath my chin.
I bury my nose into his bright orange locks, inhaling the scent of cinnamon, sweat, sex – and one other smell that I've come to love on him.
"Go back to sleep," I tell him. I stroke his back softly, being careful to avoid the bruises I've placed there tonight. The touch lulls him back to sleep. He grunts sleepily and soon I feel his chest rise and fall evenly against my own.
I smile to myself and close my eyes.
Yes, I like the way he smells. But I like it best when he smells like me.
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