A noise in the other room pulls me from sleep and I spring out of bed. When I get to the kitchen, I find Miguel vigorously stirring something in a bowl, the sound of metal scrapping metal grating on my eardrums. It’s eggs, I deduce from the empty carton on the counter next to the sausage he grabs and adds to the bowl, and not once does he stop his whisking.
The pan sizzles—a much more welcoming sound—when he pours in the mixture, and my mouth salivates. He’s an excellent chef; his creations always fill the apartment with the most succulent aromas. I smell a hint of peppers and onions as well, but my focus is on the wonderful fragrance of sautéing meat.
I don’t know why he bothered putting on a shirt, perhaps to combat the splattering of grease, but it’s the only thing he’s wearing minus the flip-flops on his feet. His perfectly sculpted ass is on full display as I trot over to him and take my place at his side. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to sample the goods.
“Buenos dias, Max,” he greets me, and I beam up at him. “Smells good, no?”
This is our usual Sunday morning routine.
Miguel comes over every Saturday night after his shift at the hotel. He’s a salsa instructor by day, professional dancer by night and has the sleekest thighs I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of legs. After a late dinner, we curl up on the couch and watch a movie—last night it was some Marvel thing—then stumble towards the bedroom in the dark.
I’m not sure how he’s able to slip out of bed without me noticing in the morning, but he’s as quiet as a mouse. I then wake up to thudding in the kitchen and have to investigate. That’s where Patrick finds us, Miguel cooking breakfast and me hoping for a dropped morsel as I scrutinize the floor.
“Max, you tubby thing! Are you begging for food again?” Patrick reprimands, and I do my best to look ashamed, but I know Miguel feels bad for me because he always saves me a piece of sausage. He winks down at me and I wag my stubby tail.
I like him. Patrick seems to as well.
He joins us by the stove and presses his mouth to Miguel’s. He does that with affection, I’ve learned, but Miguel can’t lick his face as well as I do.
My alpha isn’t wearing any clothes, which, in my opinion, is an animal’s natural state. And I know from personal experience, and from witnessing last night’s display, that “animalistic” is the only way to describe them.
Patrick makes his way over to the table to await his meal. I’ll get fed later, but the pieces of sausage and egg Miguel sneaks my way will tie me over while they finish breakfast and we move on to the next phase of our Sunday morning routine: a nice, noisy shower for them and a long nap for yours truly.
A/n: I never write in 1st pov, but experimenting is fun!
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