avec pedigree


The thing about Riza he loved the most was probably the unwavering faith and trust she placed in him. After her thighs, of course, but that was another thing that certainly didn't matter right then.

Riza was one of the few in the military forces that didn't speak ill of him; she was, effectively, always there when he needed her in any way, would it be saving his back on the field or pressing him into finishing all his paperwork. And boy, was he glad he was the only one who ever got to pushing her around.

It made him more of a confident man, to be honest, managing a woman as pigheaded and stubborn as she; especially when her cheeks heated and blossomed red underneath his attentive gaze. That was, if he took the liberty to stare somewhere she wouldn't exactly allow.

There was, one thing, however, that just—just ticked him off.

That dog. That black, mischievous, untrustworthy dog.

While Roy had confessed to have never been fond of animals, the way Hayate would lick her hand in appreciation just left his neck burning with envy. The way he would climb onto her lap, paws threateningly close to her cleavage made his shoulders stiffen (she was bustier than she let on, with the heavy jacket of the military). They way that bastard trotted after her when she was done with a shower—alright, so he wasn't sure of that, but Roy just knew that that could be a viable hypothesis.

Her towel probably slipped, and who was there to watch the little drips sliding down her thighs? Who was there when she was moaning his name in her feverish, steamy dreams? Who was there when she'd bend over to catch something, in her delightfully short shorts? And, oh, she'd look amazing wearing an apron, and just that—who'd see her?

The dog.

That little son of a b—

"Sir, your hand is flinching again," Riza helpfully pointed out, sipping on her coffee placidly. "And you're also drooling."

Roy turned red and tried hiding underneath the secretary, while the blond just sighed.