Tripping on a Halo: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  “Get the condom,” she groaned. “I need you, now.”

  21

  His cock was beautiful. I watched him slide on the condom, the latex tightly stretched over the head, and almost asked him to take it off. I had this raw, animal need to have him take me bare, to experience the feeling of our skin against skin. But I didn’t. I closed my mouth, and watched him climb onto the bed, that cock bobbing up between his thighs, and coming closer to me.

  “I want to ride it.” I don’t know who spoke, but it couldn’t have been me, because I don’t even know how to ride a man. My inexperience shrieked in alarm as I pulled him down to the bed, gripped him in my hand (so hard) and straddled his hips.

  I went slowly, his girth more than I was prepared for, and I hissed out a breath as I lowered myself down on him, my eyes closing at the delicious sensation of him impaling me.

  “Open your eyes.” His voice was guttural and dominant and his hands bit into my waist, his hips lifting in short thrusts, a subtle hint as to what he wanted.

  I opened my eyes and rocked forward, my hands on his chest, squeezing at the muscle as I instinctively rocked up and down his shaft. His eyes darkened, his hands gripping my hips, and I must be doing something right because holy hell his eyes were smoldering with arousal.

  “Fuck, you feel incredible.” He held my gaze and I increased my pace, my breasts beginning to jiggle, his eyes drawn to them. I watched as his mouth dropped open a little, his eyes glazing over and he slid his hands up my side and forward, cupping my breasts and squeezing them, eyes pinching shut as he let out a guttural groan. “God damn, woman.”

  I released every self-conscious thought and focused on my own pleasure, dropping forward and pumping my hips over his stiff dick, shameless in my use of him, my orgasm coming, vibrating up my thighs and exploding, the pleasure causing me to falter, my rhythm off. I…

  His hands closed on my ass and he brought me to his chest, taking over the action, matching my prior strokes with a perfect precision that grabbed my orgasm and carried it forward, stretching it out, the pleasure shuddering through every inch of me before wringing me dry.

  We rolled, and I was on my back, looking up at him, his hand braced on the bed behind me, his muscular chest rising and falling before me, my body slick and sensitive around his cock. I raked my nails down his chest and along his abs, grabbing at his ass and encouraging him to go deeper harder faster in a voice I didn’t even recognize as my own.

  He moaned my name as he came, his eyes devouring mine, his orgasm hard and furious, as he thrust deeper, his breath coming faster, his eyes pinching shut as he gave one last shuddering grunt inside of me.

  He fell beside me, the mattress squeaking, and blew out a hard breath. “Holy fuck, Autumn.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.

  He rolled onto his side and sat up, heading into the bathroom. I lay there, the television still playing quietly in the background and tried to process my feelings.

  I didn’t even know sex could be like that. That combustive. That fulfilling. We hadn’t felt like strangers. Where had been the awkwardness? The insecurities? In their place, there had only been this overwhelming wave of pleasure and sexuality and synergy. And now, in the moments afterward, I felt drunk on a heady mix of pleasure and emotion.

  “Damn.” He returned from the bathroom and crawled onto the bed, propping himself up above me. “That was insane.” He gently tucked my hair behind my ear and kissed me with a tenderness that threatened to break my walls. “You’re addicting, you know that?”

  I managed a strangled half-laugh, watching as he rolled onto his back.

  “Come here,” he said gruffly, his hands prying me off the bed and pulling me against his chest. I let him roll me into his arms, my head comfortably against his shoulder, and frantically sorted through my feelings.

  Happy? Check

  Post-orgasmic bliss? Check

  Concerned? Check, check, check, check … check

  Becoming friends with Declan Moss could only help my ability to protect him. But sleeping with him and developing feelings for him… that was a new ball of yarn. I wasn’t sure it was feasible to protect him properly if I had romantic feelings for him. I certainly hadn’t been looking out for any dangers in the last twenty minutes.

  What had just happened was a mistake. I had to stay vigilant and focus on his safety.

  Danger was lurking, and soon, my alarm bells would ring again. I could feel it coming. Building. Waiting to pounce.

  I waited until Declan fell asleep, then carefully slid out of bed and snuck out of the room.

  Mr. Oinks sighed, one hoof waving in the air as I rubbed his tummy. I stretched out my legs, my body deliciously worn out. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I slept with Declan Moss. If I had a guardian angel advisor, she was no doubt up in heaven, screaming at me with a giant megaphone and finding a thunderbolt to smite me with.

  The bad news was, I’d been completely at fault in all of this. Sure, I’d started off right. Outside of the sports bar, when he’d bent down to kiss me, his eyes full of smolders and sweetness, I’d pushed him away. Ranted and raved and successfully changed the subject until, ten minutes later, when I lost all sense and took a hard right-turn into Hoochieville. I blamed a combination of alcohol, abstinence, and that damn audiobook. What normal, slightly drunk, sexually deprived woman would be able to resist Declan Moss with bedroom eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, massaging her feet?

  No woman. NONE. I leaned back against the back porch post and absentmindedly scratched Mr. Oinks, his contented grunts adding to the chorus of frogs from my koi pond. I let my gaze wander over my yard’s azalea-lined border, the faint smell of my orange trees in the air. I worked hard on this yard. Prior to Mom’s passing, I’d rented one bedroom of it from Mr. Clevepepper, a sixty-three-year-old piano teacher. This yard had been a giant mess of weeds and grass tall enough to hit my knees. I cleared the bulk of it with a machete, unearthing two water moccasins before I invested in a pair of snake boots, the thick leather boots suffocating my poor feet as I hauled away the cuttings. Mr. Clevepepper’s ancient lawnmower had bad gas, and it’d taken the help of the two high school boys to get it running. Mr. Clevepepper had watched me struggle from the air-conditioned comfort of the living room, grunting in disapproval when I would come in, sweaty and covered in dust, his eyes critically watching to make sure that I removed my boots before stepping off the front mat.

  I teared up briefly at the memory of Mom seeing this yard for the first time, after all of my hard work. She’d hugged me and nodded in approval, then told me the hibiscus by the fence would never survive. I smiled. She’d been right. They’d wilted and died with the first cold snap, despite my ragged attempts to keep them warm.

  A few months after she passed, I got approval from the trust to buy this house. Mr. C hadn’t hesitated, picking out a Villages condo before the ink had dried on the contract, his heavy oak furniture loaded in a U-Haul and rattling down the driveway without a backward glance. He didn’t even let his students know. For two weeks after he left, I’d answered the doorbell to expectant clients, their sheet music in hand, confusion clouding their features when I told them Mr. Clevepepper didn’t live here anymore. The first kid I told stood there for a long moment as he absorbed the news, then he literally threw the sheet music in the air and jumped up, his tiny fists punching the air, whooping with glee as he all but cartwheeled down the front steps to tell his mother, his lined pages left behind, littering my freshly-painted porch.

  My second visitor took the news much more somberly, her face falling, liver-spotted hands plucking at the expensive string of pearls around her neck. “He just left?” she cried, her voice wobbling on the question. “Without saying goodbye?” I’d hugged her, unsure of what else to do, and had to hold my breath at the heavy scent of her perfume. Mr. Clevepepper, sneaky man, seemed to have broken a heart in his hasty exit.

  I was properly concerned. The history books
are full of untimely deaths, caused by broken hearts. Sometimes it’s a heart attack or body shutdown. But there are more interesting side effects of separation. Take Kurt Godel, who would only eat food that had been cooked by his wife. When she was unexpectedly hospitalized for an extended period of time, he starved to death.

  Ms. Clutch-Her-Pearls didn’t die. I made sure to get her phone number and connected her with a younger, much more handsome, new piano teacher. We had lunch a few weeks later where she met a baby Mr. Oinks and lectured me on the dangers of sugar on my body. She was unhappy with her new instructor and planning a move to the Villages. She had already found Mr. Clevepepper on “the Facebook” and had a seduction plan in place that involved a pair of hot pink spandex pants and some fuzzy heels.

  I was happy for her and hopeful of her plan, though I couldn’t imagine anyone intentionally choosing to spend the rest of her life with a man who read National Geographic with his morning oatmeal. But c’est la vie. Everyone should find their person. Ideally, Declan’s soulmate would be an emergency room doctor who enjoyed hanging out in padded rooms with a bland diet of non-chokeable, hypoallergenic food. I could be their gardener and nanny, hovering on the edge of their perfect life and popping in whenever my spidey sense went haywire.

  I mused over a few other corrections I could make to my schedule and his, now that my subterfuge was no longer necessary. Access to his calendar, that was a must. And any travel arrangements, I’d need to know those in advance. I glanced at my watch, the only piece of my outfit he hadn’t torn off, and wondered if I should wake him back up. I got to my feet, holding open the door for Mr. Oinks, before shutting and locking it behind us, then tiptoed down the hall, stopping by the mail hutch to grab a pen and notepad. Easing open the door, I crawled on top of the bed and peered down at him.

  God, he was pretty. He’d thrown off most of the blanket, leaving his upper body exposed. He was on his back, one arm curled up under the pillow, his bicep impressively displayed. He had a tattoo on the underside of the muscle and I leaned forward, struggling to read the cursive. Even angels fall. I frowned, the tattoo a little morbid, especially given my self-proclaimed angel designation. I moved on from it, taking another moment to savor the look of his strong chest, notched abs, the peaceful angles of his handsome face. He was safe. Maybe waking him up was a bad idea. I sat back on my heels and reconsidered the thought. He had a nick on the edge of his jaw that I’d never been close enough to notice—a scar where no hair grew. Such thick eyelashes. God, a mascara company needed to hire him for ads. I’d use half a tube of Maybelline and come away with spider lashes before I ever achieved that.

  There was a loud scratch at the bedpost and I looked down to see Mr. Oinks, his corkscrewed tail wagging, looking up at me. I shushed him, and the time for ogling was over. Not that it hadn’t been justified. The chances of this bed ever having such a perfect male specimen again was embarrassingly low. Like … Heidi Montag coming back into social relevance, low. Cleveland Browns winning the Super Bowl, low. Me sticking to my Weight Watchers points goal, low. Mr. Oinks scratched again and I refocused on the task, reaching forward and softly pushing a finger into Declan’s chest. Wow. High-five to his workout regime. I slid the finger lower and tried again, this time in the first ridge of abs. He stirred, and I let my other hand play, drumming over the slack six-pack before nudging him. “Declan,” I whispered. He grunted and I climbed higher on the bed, straddling his hips and leaning over him. I can’t believe I had sex with him. And not just sex. Filthy sex. I made sounds I didn’t know I had. He … I sighed, pushing away the swoony feelings that came into play with how sweet and tender he had been. I gently shook him by the shoulders. “Declan.”

  He opened his eyes, and blinked, focusing on my face. His free hand moved, sliding up my bare leg and gripping my thigh.

  I ignored how much I enjoyed the connection and gently pushed it off. “I’m going to need access to your calendar. Will you tell your assistant?”

  He blinked and seemed confused. “Okay.”

  “And travel arrangements.”

  “Okay.” His voice was thick and he pulled his hand free from underneath his head and tugged me down, my weight awkwardly falling on his chest.

  I struggled not to react, my arms slack at my side. I forced my mind off how deliciously warm his skin was and concentrated on my to-do list. He smelled amazing, a cocktail of scents I’d never experienced before. So, this is what romance novels were always trying to describe. His breathing started to deepen and I clamped down my focus before I lost him to sleep. “And your full medical records.”

  “Sure.” His fingers ran up my back and I’d pay a thousand dollars for someone to do that every night. “You smell really good, Autumn Jones.”

  I searched widely for anything else I might need, since he seemed to be in such a giving mood. “Would you be open to a bodyguard? Someone non-obtrusive.”

  “Sure.” He bent his head forward and inhaled deeply. I think he was smelling my hair. Had he meant it? Did I smell really good? I attempted my own secretive sniff, but came up with nothing but him. Maybe he was smelling himself and confused. Though, now that I thought about it, I’m not certain we can smell ourselves. No, scratch that—after an afternoon in the yard, I had definitely smelled myself before. It’s our own breath, I think that’s what we can’t smell.

  “Relax.” He nuzzled my neck, his fingertips continuing their lazy journey across my back. “You’re all stiff.”

  I forced my muscles to slacken, aided by the dramatic sigh of Mr. Oinks as he gave up on getting into bed and flopped onto the floor, his hooves skittering into place.

  I hadn’t fallen asleep next to a man in years. The last attempt had been with a twenty-two-year-old barista who had eaten potato chips next to me while thumbing through channels. He’d half-heartedly offered me some of my own chips before shushing me, so he could hear the television. Mr. Oinks had liked him. He’d joined us in bed and licked the bag clean, finding several crumbs in the sheets and smacking his gums with excitement. I had told the guy that I didn’t eat in bed, and didn’t want to give Mr. Oinks any ideas, to which he had stared at me, before informing me that Mr. Oinks was a pig. As if the giant nostrils and fat pink belly didn’t give it away. I had kicked him out a few minutes later, slamming the door dramatically and swearing on a stack of Cosmos that I was done with men forever.

  But this wasn’t all that bad. It was pretty great, actually. I rested my head on his chest and closed my eyes. Maybe, for a few minutes, I could forget about all of the latent dangers, ignore my responsibilities, and just enjoy the moment.

  From the floor, Mr. Oinks grunted in approval.

  22

  Declan woke up alone, the sun streaming through half-closed blinds and painting lines across the opposite wall. Lifting his head, he listened, the faint sound of voices coming from somewhere else in the house. He looked around for his phone and winced at the time. Almost nine-fifteen. Late. Then again, he hadn’t had that sort of workout in a while. He grinned and swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, finding his jeans in the corner of the room and pulling them on. His shirt was twisted in the sheets. He unbuttoned it and pulled the first sleeve on as he walked down the hall, following the voices.

  The hall opened to a living room, one he vaguely remembered passing through last night. What he hadn’t noticed then was the dining room alcove, situated on the far end of the room. The space was now filled with Autumn and three men in suits. He came to a stop, wary at the sight of the strangers, who all hulked over Autumn. She flitted between their intimidating builds, a clipboard in hand, and didn’t hesitate at the sight of him. “Oh good, you’re awake!” She beamed, and he couldn’t help matching her smile. She was so gorgeous, especially like this—barefoot in a thin white T-shirt and faded jeans, her hair loose and wild, eyes bright and excited. She whirled to one side and pointed to the first suit. “This is—” she consulted her clipboard—“Mark. And Cooper.” Her pen swung to th
e third man. “And France. I’ve already spoken to each of them, but thought you might want to do mini-interviews before we made a decision? Or, several decisions?”

  He’d missed something. He slowly pulled his arm through the second sleeve and tried to piece together the clues. Big strangers. That he was interviewing. For him and Autumn to make a decision. Or several decisions. He worked his hand through the cuff and didn’t miss the brief moment when Autumn’s eyes dropped to his abs. He tightened them and appreciated the flush that hit her cheeks. God, she’d been so fucking sexy last night. So expressive. So responsive. She’d come alive under his touch, demanding pleasure while delivering it, her body bucking under his, her legs wrapping around him, hands traveling all over him. He met her eyes and grinned, fighting the urge to lift her over his shoulder and carry her back in the bedroom right now, random strangers with unknown purposes be damned.

  She put a fist on her hip and raised her eyebrows. “Well?” Judging by the all-business look on her face, she wasn’t as blown away from last night’s memories as he was. If he did heft her over his shoulder, she’d most likely knee him in the balls.